


1000 Paper Cranes

by musicforlife101



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach, paper cranes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-16 23:05:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1365073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicforlife101/pseuds/musicforlife101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Then something seemed to strike him, the brilliance of his own brother perhaps." In which Sherlock sends notes by way of paper crane, Mycroft is suspicious and John has the patience of a saint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this post-Reichenbach, and way before Series 3, so it's goes off-canon after the fall. Also, I've still got the final chapter waiting to be finished on my computer, so expect that up sometime in the foreseeable future.

It was a normal day, like any of the past 90-odd days since Sherlock Holmes had pitched himself off the rooftop of St. Bart’s. The world around John Watson had changed considerably. He wasn’t living on Baker Street, but he hadn’t exactly moved out yet. He was staying with Clara, Harry’s ex, in another part of the city. They’d always got on and she was kind enough to let him stay in the guest room for a while. Well, three months so far. When he went in to bed that night, there was a brightly coloured piece of folded paper sitting on the bedside table. Curious, John turned it over in his hands several times before he unfolded the origami and read the note he found inside.

 

_It’s been 95 days, please come home._

 

The message was scrawled in lazy, insolent script, barely legible except to those who knew it well. If he was Sherlock, and that thought hurt him, he would deduce that it was Sherlock writing to him. But it wasn’t possible. Still, maybe he had spent enough time here. He’d go back to the flat in the morning. Mrs Hudson had promised it would still be there for him when he was ready. Carefully refolding the small paper, John realized that it was a crane. He wondered if that meant something. Knowing his best friend, of course it did. He’d have to research it later. But a crane with a silly little note came every day. A few days later, and back at Baker Street, John walked into the sitting room to find a new crane sitting on top of his open laptop.

 

_Half of your blog’s hits are from me._

 

John smiled before refolding the crane and putting it with the others. He’d looked up the story and if Sherlock intended to give him a thousand paper cranes and was only going to give him one a day, he might have to wait a very long time for his wish. He wanted to believe that Sherlock could pull off this last miracle, but it hurt a little too much to keep praying for something that everyone said wasn’t going to happen. The next morning, there was a crane on his windowsill.

 

_I’m sorry_.

 

Well, miracles had been known to happen, he supposed.

 

For the next few days, things were strained. John wasn’t quite comfortable in the city and Mrs Hudson was tense. When he got back from the store that evening and opened the fridge, there was a crane sitting cheerfully on the shelf.

 

_Tell Mrs Hudson I’ve always loved her._

 

“Mrs Hudson,” John called as he folded the crane back and put it in his pocket.

 

“Yes, dear,” she asked as she came into the kitchen.

 

John looked at his shoes for a moment before facing his landlady. “Sherlock just wanted me to tell you that he’s always loved you.” A watery smile spread across her face as she embraced John. The tension left 221 Baker Street almost instantly.

 

“Maybe you should look at this as moving forward, rather than moving on, John. There won’t be any running around London. You can transition comfortably into civilian life. Become ordinary John Watson,” his therapist explained at the end of one of their sessions. John just nodded and left, still quiet and reserved and unable to explain how much it hurt to have the best year and a half of his life turned into a stepping stone between the war and ‘normal life’ when it was everything. When John woke up in the morning, there was a crane on his pillow, bright green this time.

 

_You are so much more than ordinary._

 

John smiled, folded it, and placed it with the others. Maybe today would be better.

 

It wasn’t. He’d fought with Harry and his parents and Mycroft and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. It had been one of the worst days in recent memory. He returned home the next afternoon to a crane on the coffee table.

 

_Tell Mrs Hudson I’m sorry._

 

John carefully walked down the stairs and knocked on Mrs Hudson’s door. She opened it and stared at him with wide eyes.

 

“Sherlock wanted me to tell you that he’s sorry.”

 

“I know he is.” She wrapped her arms around John’s neck and he prayed they would be alright. And he hoped that the people Sherlock was asking him to give messages to wouldn’t think he was crazy for bringing them words from a dead man.

 

The next day, John hailed a cab to go have lunch with Lestrade and found another passenger in the backseat with him: a yellow crane.

 

_Tell Lestrade thank you._

 

The Detective Inspector sat down in the café with John and they talked for a few minutes before John got up the nerve to sound insane. “I know this is going to sound crazy, but Sherlock wanted me to thank you for him.” Lestrade smiled slightly and looked down at his plate. He nodded and continued on like he hadn’t heard John, probably because he wasn’t supposed to be aware of any possible fugitives, or because messages from a dead man generally left an odd feeling in one’s mind. John wasn’t sure which it was. He wished he could figure it out.

 

A week later, he had plans to go down and visit the Yarders, well mainly just Lestrade, in the afternoon. That morning, he woke up to a crane on the kitchen table.

 

_Tell Sally I forgive her._

 

Sighing, John refolded the crane and flattened its wings before putting it in his pocket. He’d need the strength of Sherlock’s words if he was going to go about forgiving Sally. Thankfully, the probability of ever receiving a ‘Forgive Anderson’ note was somewhere in the vicinity of negative ten billion because there was no way John would ever do that. Well, maybe for Sherlock he would, but not without Sherlock.

 

Catching a cab to Scotland Yard, the doctor was pleasantly surprised to find more than a few friendly expressions greeting him. Apparently Lestrade wasn’t Sherlock’s only ally there. It warmed his heart when a young woman passed by him and pressed a slip of paper into his hand. It simply read: I believe in Sherlock Holmes. An average looking man smiled at him from behind his desk, a small poster tacked to the wall behind him. It was split horizontally, the top half reading: Brook is a crook. And the bottom half reading:  Moriarty was real.

 

When John reached Lestrade’s office, he realized that he had passed Sally’s desk without even looking at her. It was something of a defence mechanism, he supposed. Greg greeted him kindly, but it was obvious that John wasn’t in the moment.

 

“I need to do something really quick.” Then former soldier slipped out and made a beeline for the second to last person Lestrade had expected. “Sally?” John asked calmly, one hand in his pocket smoothing the lines of the crane and reminding himself why he was doing this.

 

She looked up from her work quickly. “John,” she said, a little shocked.

 

“Look, I don’t really want to be here talking to you right now, but Sherlock wanted me to tell you that he forgives you, for doubting him and everything. He’s a bigger person than I am, a better one.” And then John turned around and walked back to Lestrade’s office, leaving Sally wide-eyed and slack-jawed at her desk.

 

It had become habit now, almost like his weekly visits to Sherlock’s grave, to visit the Yarders every week or so. That young woman and the man who had been so obvious in their support had both come up to him and introduced themselves the next time he was there. A week later, there was a cheery lavender crane sitting on top of the tea kettle waiting for him to get up and get ready for a day at Scotland Yard.

 

_Make fun of Anderson for me._

 

John almost laughed. He didn’t, hadn’t in a long while, but it was a near thing. He set the crane with the others and when he reached Lestrade’s office he was in luck. Anderson was in there discussing a case and wearing a truly hideous tie. It was a golden moment; one he was sure Sherlock wouldn’t want him to pass up.

 

“Nice tie, Anderson,” John commented as the other man finally stepped out of the office.

 

“You think so?”

 

“Yeah, looks like what my sister would have worn to a school dance. After she got drunk and hurled all over it.” Then he raised his eyebrows in a slightly considering, but uncaring, fashion before walking off into his friend’s office with a lighter heart and a spluttering Anderson in his wake. Perhaps the day would be better.

 

It wasn’t until two days later, when John found a red crane on the mantle, that he started to think Sherlock was using him to make amends and cut loose ends. That even if he wasn’t dead yet, he might be soon and that thought occupied him so fully that he didn’t want to look at the note again to make sure it wasn’t lying to him. But he did look and it wasn’t.

 

_Tell Mycroft I forgive him._

 

It seemed like something that happened once in a lifetime and Sherlock was so stubborn that John had been convinced it would never happen. Especially not now when John didn’t even want to think about the elder Holmes brother, let alone forgive him. But this was for Sherlock. He’d forgiven Sally, but Mycroft’s betrayal was worse because he was family. They had trusted Mycroft, as much as Sherlock trusted anyone aside from John.

 

_Meet me for tea – JW_

_I’m a busy man Dr Watson. Can it wait? – MH_

_It’s urgent. 5 mins max. – JW_

_Very well. – MH_

 

Mycroft met him for tea in the usual place only an hour and a half later. It wasn’t enough time for John to lose his nerve, but he had entertained several crazy fantasies about what Sherlock’s brother would do when he received a message from beyond the grave, each more ridiculous than the last.

 

“I assume you asked me here for a reason, John. An urgent one, you said.”

 

John nodded. “Sherlock wanted me to tell you that he forgives you.”

 

“John…” Mycroft began, that condescending tone of someone speaking with a small child about giving up their imaginary friend filling every drawn out moment of that syllable. Then something seemed to strike him, the brilliance of his own brother, perhaps. “Has he spoken with you? Have you seen him?”

 

The shorter man shook his head in the negative. “No, but he wanted me to tell you.” He liked that phrase. It was vague enough that he wasn’t lying, but people often just assumed he was relaying things that Sherlock had told him during his suicide call, things that he’d only just worked up to repeating. They would understand if that was the truth. But it wasn’t and the ambiguity of John’s phrasing protected him. “He’s a bigger man than I am, a better one,” he repeated, reminded painfully of that day with Sally. “I can’t forgive you. You sold him out and he found it within himself to forgive you for your mistakes.”

 

“For what it’s worth, John,” Mycroft says to the other man’s retreating back, “I am so sorry. I loved him, too.”

 

“I still do,” John breathed into the charged air of the café. “Goodbye Mycroft.” Then he continued his solitary trek back to his own torture chamber of a life.

 

It had been a horrible day full of people who thought he was crazy for believing in a madman, a fraud, but John had stood his ground. They didn’t back off like they usually did. Rather, one accused him of harbouring a secret doubt. It wasn’t true, but it riled him all the same. When he got home that evening, all John wanted was a cup of tea and for it to be over. What he found was a dark green crane sitting on the coffee table, waiting for him.

 

_I know you never doubted me_.

 

It made the fight of the day worth it, to know that Sherlock might be watching and that he knew. John, of course, was aware that allowing himself to think it was actually Sherlock on the other end of these cranes was a horrible idea, but it staved off some of the depression some days, so it couldn’t be that bad.

 

Most of the notes were almost heartbreakingly normal until the day before Christmas. John had been in a foul mood the last week. Only his second Christmas at Baker Street and it was already his first without Sherlock. He could tell it was going to be horrible. Mrs Hudson was trying to bring in the cheer, but John was blocking out the tree and tinsel as best he could. Suddenly, it didn’t feel like Christmas without his infuriating flatmate. A red crane was sitting on the tree when he came back from his walk.

 

_Without you, I’ll be miserable at best._

 

John didn’t break into fresh sobs, but a few tears rolled down his face unchecked. It somehow made it both better and worse that his best friend missed him too (though Sherlock would be hard pressed to use that term). For now, it would have to do. Something was keeping him away at Christmas. Maybe it was death, maybe it was life, maybe John had finally lost it. He didn’t know, but he did know that he wasn’t crazy enough to tell anyone about the notes. They already thought he was a little off when he passed along a message. He didn’t need them to think he was any crazier than that.

 

The next morning, a cheerfully Christmas patterned crane waited under the tree. It simply read:

 

_Merry Christmas_

 

Boxing Day was a subdued affair as well, only punctuated by Mrs Hudson dragging John out of the flat and down to the park for a quiet walk in the snow. John wasn’t particularly enthused about it, but he didn’t want to crush Mrs Hudson’s unfailing spirit. It kept him afloat most days. When he returned to 221B, there was a dark blue crane waiting for him on Sherlock’s armchair.

 

_I was never afraid of death_

 

John refolded it and placed it with the others, hoping that out of sight would truly be out of mind. Maybe they were Sherlock’s last messages to him, placed here by allies unknown rather than the fantasy John would rather cling to: that Sherlock was still alive and sending them himself. Just wanting the day to be over, John climbed the stairs tiredly, his leg bothering him just a bit, and went to bed.

 

When he opened his eyes in the morning, another crane was sitting serenely on the bed directly in his sightline. It laid there in all its colourful silence in just the spot a lover would, exactly where he would wake up and see it and smile. Sherlock was clever, if he was even the one leaving the notes. If anyone could send him notes from beyond the grave, it would be Sherlock Holmes. He unfolded it without getting up, deciding to defiantly stay in bed for the day.

 

_But I am constantly afraid of living without you_

 

And John pressed the bright paper to his chest, soaking up the words, because oh, did he understand. Invade Afghanistan? Sure. Chase criminals through London? Easy. Live without Sherlock? Terrifying. So John spent the rest of the day and night in bed. He didn’t eat or sleep that much and he didn’t have any tea. He wasn’t sure what had hit him, but it hit him like a freight train.

 

After the New Year, John was forced to get up and interact with the world because he had an appointment with his therapist. She was forceful and told him that needed to let go and move on and leave his time with Sherlock in the past. That forgetting, putting it all in a little locked box in his mind, was the only way to be normal again. But he didn’t want to be normal. He wanted to be extraordinarily ordinary compared to Sherlock, but still extraordinary in his eyes.

 

“Think about it, John. Your life will get better a lot more quickly if you let him go. I don’t want you stuck in this denial and despair for the rest of your life. It’s not healthy,” she told him at the end of their session. He just nodded and left, walking the whole way home. A crane was waiting for him, leaning up against the door to the sitting room on the landing.

 

_Your therapist is wrong._

 

It soothed the ache a lot. He just wondered what exactly she was wrong about. Maybe it was everything, so he decided to hang on, just a while longer.

 

A week later, John was on his weekly visit to Sherlock’s grave. When he returned, there was a bright yellow crane resting on a stack of clean dishes. He couldn’t remember doing them, but it was entirely possible that Mrs Hudson had decided to. Sherlock’s notes had been inane over the last week, but he looked forward to them anyway.

 

_Stonehenge is boring_

 

It was such a Sherlock thing to say. Of course he would find it boring, there was no murder involved. John grinned as he folded the crane back and tucked it away with the others.

 

After another week of inane comments about this thing or that thing, this place or that, people who had caught Sherlock’s eye, John was still looking forward to the notes, but he also held some trepidation that maybe they were just prewritten little notes that some person was paid to deliver each day. He desperately wanted to be wrong and for Sherlock to really be sneaking into the flat at night or while he was out (as creepy as that would be if it were anyone else), but he knew it wasn’t terribly likely. A bright green crane was waiting on the sitting room windowsill when he got back from lunch with Stamford and he read it just the same, still hoping.

 

_Avoided Mycroft’s lackeys today._

 

For a moment, John just stared at the careless scrawl. There was something about this and the something pushed his heart up into his throat, making it hard to swallow. If anyone in the world could cheat death, it would be Sherlock Holmes. Could he have really done it? Mycroft seemed to think so when they’d had tea. And if this note was current and truthful, he still seemed to believe that his brother could be alive. Maybe there was real, sane hope after all.

 

On one of John’s regular-ish trips to Scotland Yard to visit Lestrade and the smattering of allies he had amongst the ranks of the disbelievers, he managed to get into a spectacular row with Sally and Anderson.

 

“He was a fraud, always a fraud! He told you _himself!”_ Sally argued.

 

“If you believe him so easily, then why don’t you believe something he told you was true?” Anderson asked venomously.

 

It was then that Lestrade butted in, yelling, “Anderson, Donovan! Get back to work!” And when he turned around to apologise to John, the former soldier was already down the hall and into the lift. Lestrade sighed. When John finally got back to Baker Street there was a crane sitting on his tea kettle.

 

_Forget what they think of me, John._

 

The exactness of these notes was slowly convincing John that they were actually his best friend being sneaky. But that didn’t make it any easier to take his absence, especially in the flat. Despite being so full of Sherlock’s things, the copious cranes he’d left were not a suitable substitute for his actual presence.

 

Only a few days of this moping and trying to decide what to do had left John with the distinct feeling in his gut that he should move out. The rent was adding up and despite Mrs Hudson’s protests that he shouldn’t worry about the rent and just to pay his half if he felt it was necessary, John was not comfortable with the idea of short-changing his wonderful landlady. He hadn’t said anything aloud about it, but when he opened the crane (today it was sitting jauntily on top of Sherlock’s favourite mug) it read:

 

_Don’t move out of 221B_

 

And that nearly decided it, but John wasn’t entirely convinced. The rent was expensive and he didn’t feel comfortable with not paying Mrs Hudson in full. Surely, Sherlock would understand. Smiling to himself, John climbed the stairs even more slowly and crawled into bed. His leg was bothering him again. When he woke up in the morning, there was a crane sitting in the ocular cavity of the cow skull on the sitting room wall.

 

_Don’t worry about the rent. It’s been taken care of._

 

John wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but he didn’t doubt it for a second. Rather than ponder something he would likely never find an answer to, John made himself some tea and sat down in front of the telly. That afternoon, Mrs Hudson came upstairs to talk to him.

 

“I got the oddest message from the bank today,” she said, shaking her head as if to clear out all the things she didn’t understand.

 

“Yeah?” John replied, feigning interest and not really looking up.

 

“Yes, they said that a transfer was deposited into my account this morning in the amount of your rent from an unidentified account. And the account sent a message as well, which I didn’t even know was possible. It said that the account would automatically transfer the rent into my account on the first of every month until June.”

 

“This June?” he asked, finally interested.

 

“No, dear. June of 2015. I told the nice man on the phone thank you and hung up. It was very strange, but now you don’t need to worry about the rent for a couple of years.” She smiled and patted him briefly on the shoulder before getting up and tittering to herself as she went back downstairs.

 

John was left staring blankly at the telly. Apparently Sherlock had really taken care of it. Over two years, though. That was about right, when he did the vague calculations in his head, subtracting the number of cranes he had received from a thousand.

 

Smiling softly to himself, John was content to stay at 221B, no matter how uncomfortable and full of memories it was, and get crane messages from Sherlock. They were filled with simple little inanities until John’s birthday.

 

_Happy Birthday John_

 

It was perfect, simple and John kept it in his pocket the whole day, even when he went out for lunch with Stamford and out to a birthday dinner with Lestrade, Molly and Mrs Hudson. At the end of the day, he put it with the others and went calmly to bed, not a nightmare in sight.

 

A week later, John got up and decided to go for a walk in the park, despite the slight ache in his leg and the depression that had been creeping back in since his birthday. When he got back to the flat there was a bright green crane waiting for him, peeking out from the eye socket of the skull on the mantle.

 

_I saw you today_

 

John cried. Right there in the middle of the sitting room, he fell down onto his knees clutching his lifeline to Sherlock. He was alive, at least that’s how it seemed. There wasn’t actually any information. It could easily be a prewritten missive designed to make him think Sherlock was alive. Or maybe Sherlock had just seen him the day he’d written it and not realized that John wasn’t clever enough to figure this out. Oh it was all so confusing.

 

For the next three days, John did nothing but worry. His usual routine of tea and breakfast was completely ignored. He wandered around the city, running errands, going on walks, trying to figure out if his leg really hurt, and reading Sherlock’s normal sounding messages. The scrawl was becoming messier, almost illegible in some places and that was odd to John, though he couldn’t figure out why. On the fourth day, he woke up to a crane on his bedside table instead of coming home to one.

 

_John, please eat something_

 

It was pleading with him; he could tell from the almost desperate way the letters stretched across the paper, running into one another. Stopping to think about it, he hadn’t had a meal in three days. Well, at least Sherlock understood how he felt now. And he had his answer. These were real time messages, not things that could be put out at particular occasions. John very deliberately went downstairs to the kitchen and put the kettle on while he made himself some toast and eggs. His stomach rumbled appreciatively at the smell and he thought nostalgically of trying to convince his best friend to eat just a little something. Then he tucked in to his breakfast and smiled his way through lunch as well. There was hope. Sherlock had cheated death, probably.

 

It started some time later with a fight with Harry. John’s sister was stubborn at best and downright dogmatically argumentative at worst. They started with the drinking and made a lovely circuit of all the second-hand abuse John received just by being related to her and made their way nicely back round to the drinking again.

 

“It’s no wonder Sherlock jumped. I mean you’d think someone that clever would figure some way out of it, at least for your sake. But I guess you just aren’t worth staying alive for. A lousy brother, a lousy friend, probably a lousy boyfriend, too.” Then she scoffed and walked off, leaving her brother standing on the pavement gaping at her retreating back like a fish out of water.

 

“John, are you alright?” Mrs Hudson asked when he returned to Baker Street and walked up the stairs. “Oh poor thing, you’re crying. Let me put on some tea.”

 

“No thank you, Mrs Hudson,” he replied, closing the door to the flat and finding a grey crane sitting on his armchair.

 

_No matter what Harry says, you’re worth it_

 

It was what he needed and it would have been regardless of what it said, but it was nice to know that Sherlock didn’t agree with Harriet. It was nice to know that Sherlock thought he was worth it.

 

Of course, this led to a lot of unhealthy thoughts and John was pondering the logistics of Sherlock’s (somewhat creepy) observation of him from afar and his delivery of the cranes. And he was bouncing ideas off the skull. And he was pondering it so hard that he forgot to sleep that night. When he went downstairs to pay the delivery boy for his takeaway, John returned to find a crane sitting on his empty plate.

 

_John, you need to sleep_

 

The doctor snorted in derision. Pot calling the kettle black in his opinion. So he stayed up thinking and wondering if he could stay up and not leave the flat then maybe he could catch Sherlock in the act and figure out if he was alive or if it was someone else. So he stayed up another night and spent the day watching crap telly with the volume on low in case his friend tried to sneak into one of the other rooms. When his third night started to approach, he started to feel the pull of sleep in his tired limbs.

 

A short while later, face pressed into the sofa, John awoke to a crane perched mockingly on his chest.

 

_You’re not going to ‘catch’ me if you stay up all night._

 

Shrugging and allowing Sherlock the win, John staggered upstairs, sleep deprivation making his limbs heavy and inefficient and his leg sore. That cane was looking better and better, but he didn’t need it. He was still convincing himself.

 

The ‘normalcy’ of the next week’s notes was comforting. They were familiar and John could find comfort in the simple little missives that were meant for him. But he often wondered if this was all he was good for, just being a sounding board. He came back from the store and found a crane in the cupboards.

 

_I’m bored here without you._

 

Well, there was his answer. He was important to Sherlock, enough so that his absence was disturbing to his friend. It was as close to an ‘I miss you’ as John ever expected to get, but it didn’t make him feel all that much better. Rather, an ache settled deep in his leg and he hobbled up the stairs that night to bed.

 

When he woke, there was a blue crane on his lamp. It sat there cheerily judging him for wanting to sleep, and the weakness in his leg.

 

_A boy is coming to the flat today; give him £20._

 

Groaning with the thought of actually having to get up and be presentable, John rose from his bed and walked gingerly down the stairs to have a shower. Around mid-afternoon, there was a knock at the door. He climbed down more stairs and answered it. There was a grubby looking boy standing on the stoop with big brown eyes and half a smile.

 

“Mr Sherlock Holmes said to come here,” he said quietly, as if ashamed of explaining himself.

 

John reached into his wallet and pulled out a £20 note. “What were you doing for Mr Sherlock Holmes?” He wanted answers and that was that.

 

“I was helping him find a very bad man. I know the whole city,” the boy replied, cautiously took the money and tucked it into an inner pocket.

 

“If you see him again will you tell him that John says to come home?”

 

The boy shook his head. “He said I will probably not be seeing him again. But if I do, I will tell him Mr John. Thank you.” And then the boy was gone as quickly as he had come and John was only more convinced that his best friend was still alive. And also completely convinced that he was doing something incredibly stupid for what he believed was a just cause.

 

Trudging back up the stairs, John considered the cane more than he had in the past few months. Truthfully, the nightmares were increasing in frequency and the pain in his leg was more constant and intense than it had been, but both had been slow processes.

 

When John awoke the next morning, after taking an incredibly long time to get up the stairs the night before, he found a red crane on his pillow just beside his head.

 

_You don’t have a limp, John, so leave the cane where it is._

 

He sighed. Sherlock expected far too much from him. But he would try. It was a beautiful late spring day. He would go on a walk through the park and he would not take the cane and he would prove to himself that his leg was psychosomatic. Sherlock was right, always right. No, he didn’t have a limp.

 

After a spell of mundane (for Sherlock) messages, John woke up one morning to find a crane perched mockingly on his empty tea mug. It was bright green and had little white flecks on it.

 

_I wish you were here_

 

John sat down and had himself a good cry before going to make himself some tea to calm down and wake up. It was going to be another one of those go-take-a-walk-in-the-park-and-then-come-home-and-watch-crap-telly sort of days.

 

The next morning, there was an orange crane sitting atop his dressing gown. It seemed to be looking at him, observing him just like its maker would.

 

_Or I was there_

 

It took a moment for John to realize that it was a continuation of the previous day’s message. He went to make some tea to still his shaking hands. It was almost too much to think that the man behind that cold mask of indifference actually missed him and it wouldn’t do to get his hopes up before they were crushed. It was probably about some case he was trying to work or something.

 

The next day, John found the crane sitting politely on the kitchen counter, just waiting for John to wake up. This one was blue and didn’t mock him or observe him. It simply seemed to wait.

 

_Or we were somewhere together._

 

It hurt John, in the most basic of ways to know that Sherlock was actually missing him as much as John was missing Sherlock. It hurt him to think that his friend, who was so inexperienced with his own emotions, was feeling one so powerful and painful that he would uselessly wish for something. It wasn’t like him, but neither was missing someone.

 

It was on the one year anniversary of the fall that John woke up and found a bright red crane perched nearly on his nose, it was so close to his face on the pillow. The paper bird seemed to glare down at him with contempt for having a lie in, but John didn’t care. It was a painful day, whether Sherlock was secretly alive or not and he was entitled to a little bit of moping before he went out to the cemetery. Sighing, he opened the crane and read its short message.

 

_Watch your back today_.

 

John stared at the words quizzically for a moment before folding it back and getting out of bed. He spent the rest of the day looking over his shoulder and constantly watching for signs of trouble. For a few blocks, John was sure he was being tailed, but he easily lost his would-be pursuer. Then he was almost certain he saw a couple of security cameras follow his trek, but there was nothing he could do about Mycroft keeping an eye on him so he just let it go. Nothing overt happened, but it was nice to know that someone out there cared enough to let him know he was being followed.

 

Midweek, the morning before John’s regular visit to Scotland Yard to see Lestrade and the other Yarders he’d recently befriended, John staggered out of bed and into the kitchen to make some tea. There was no crane on his bed or in the kitchen, but he was confident it would turn up somewhere. His friend hadn’t failed yet and half the joy was the unexpected discovery of the note.

 

After he’d had a shower and gotten dressed, John went downstairs to hail a cab to Scotland Yard. It took him two minutes to notice the little purple and green flecked crane that was perched on the floor mat of the opposite seat. He reached down and picked it up, opening it with almost a smile.

 

_Anderson and Sally broke up._

 

John didn’t think much of it until he got upstairs to Lestrade’s office and saw Anderson, looking a bit more put off than usual and Sally looking vaguely triumphant. While he was not nearly as clever as Sherlock, John knew an opportunity when he saw one.

 

“I see Sally finally dumped you, Anderson,” he casually remarked, rubbing his index finger over the crane in his pocket.

 

“How did –” Anderson spluttered. “You’re turning into _him_!”

 

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” John replied and stepped lightly into Lestrade’s office.

 

On the morning of John’s next weekly visit to the cemetery, he got up and was dressed and showered very early. He made tea and had a bit of toast before walking downstairs and hailing a taxi. Then he walked out over the misty grounds to the dark marble headstone. Balanced at the bottom of the grave marker was a pale blue crane, the colour of Sherlock’s eyes when he wore that light blue shirt of his. John stooped down and picked it up, unfolding the paper to read the note.

 

_I liked the flowers last week._

 

One corner of John’s mouth twitched up in something approaching a smile. He set down the bunch of flowers he’d brought with him today at the foot of the headstone and then sat down in the damp grass beside them, not caring how the dew seeped uncomfortably into the seat of his jeans.

 

“I’m glad you liked them, Sherlock. I wish you were here though. The notes are nice, great even, but they’re doing a rubbish job of replacing you.” He sighed, unable to keep speaking. “I’ll be back next week,” he finished lamely, kissing his fingers and pressing them to the cold stone. Then he got up and walked back towards the road and his empty life.

 

It was a warmish day, but the cloud cover promised rain in the near future and the atmosphere of 221B was dreary at best. John woke up that morning not particularly out of sorts, but still feeling a bit off. He had no idea why and the reason did not become apparent throughout the day. Perhaps it was the weather. He’d gone out to buy milk and when he returned there was a dark grey crane sitting on the windowsill in the lounge. It stared out the window, seeming bored or morose. John wasn’t sure which, wasn’t sure who the crane was emulating today, him or its maker. He opened it after putting away the milk.

 

_I tried to smoke today, but I thought you would disapprove._

 

John nodded resolutely, agreeing wholeheartedly with his supposedly dead friend’s deduction. He hoped that somewhere, even if it was the other side of a creepy telescope centred on the window, Sherlock was chuckling at that.

 

Within a fortnight John was at his parents’ home for dinner. They were ‘concerned’ about him and how he was dealing with his friend’s death. He secretly thought they were more concerned with whether or not he’d started working full time again. Addiction and self-destruction ran in the Watson family as surely as blue eyes did. Long ago, John’s vice of choice had been poker, but his father and sister had not pulled free of theirs. They both drank like fish and John’s mother had to be a saint for putting up with it for so many years. That or weak for turning a blind eye and not putting a stop to it years ago.

 

Regardless of their flaws, John loved his parents. Just as he loved his sister, even when they fought. Dinner with his parents was easily as much of a disaster as he’d expected it to be. It had ended with shouting.

 

“I bet he never needed you! Never wanted you around at all! He probably jumped to get away from you! He was a fake, John, a fraud and you were too stupid to see it!” his dad had drunkenly yelled as John placed his plate in the sink, kissed his mother on the cheek and let himself out.

 

When he got home there was a crane sitting on Sherlock’s armchair. It was deep green and the sight of it calmed him almost immediately.

 

_Your father is wrong about me. And you._

 

The normally messy writing of his friend was hurried, as if he’d scrawled it only moments ago, racing to get back to Baker Street before John. That gave the doctor hope that Sherlock was alive, really alive and not just leaving messages for someone else to deliver to him. Despite the horrible evening he’d endured with his parents, John went to bed and slept soundly that night, the hasty scrawl of his friend invading his dreams and bringing him comfort.

 

A week later on Wednesday, John found himself walking up to Lestrade’s office. He said hello to Jeff and Helena, the two Yarders who had been so outwardly supportive on his earliest trips back to see Greg. When he reached the DI’s office, something was off about the atmosphere among the officers.

 

“What’s going on with your sergeants, Greg?”

 

Lestrade looked up at him with a tense expression. “Something happened and they’re starting to think Moriarty might not be dead and might be an active threat. They’re finally starting to believe it, I think.” John nodded tightly and tried to make a bit of conversation away from the topic of his least favourite person. He asked Lestrade about his nephews and Lestrade asked about Mrs Hudson. Then they said goodbye and parted ways, both looking worried. When John made it back to Baker Street there was a deep red crane perched on top of the kettle.

 

_He’s dead. I promise._

 

John breathed a sigh of relief and made himself a cuppa before sitting down in his chair.

 

_He’s dead. – JW_

_How can you be sure? – GL_

_I didn’t kill him, but I know for sure. – JW_

_Ok, we’ll figure out how he did it. Thanks, John. – GL_

 

John leaned back in his chair. So what if he hadn’t seen Moriarty die for himself. If there was anyone in the world he trusted, it was Sherlock Holmes.

 

The next week, he got a note that nearly made him smile. It was a deep purple, not unlike the shirt Sherlock loved to wear and it was perched on the coffee table, right where Sherlock would have stepped on it to get to the other side of the lounge. Apparently it was going to be one of those days, the kind where everything reminded him of his best friend. Sighing, he opened the note and sat down in his armchair.

 

_Tell Mycroft he’s put on weight again._

 

John almost cracked a smile. Both corners of his lips quirked up just slightly. It was more of a smirk than a smile, but he was amused by his friend nonetheless. It was just like Sherlock to go out of his way to comment on his brother’s diet. With no desire to actually see Mycroft, John decided a text would work just as well.

 

_You’ve been putting on weight again. – JW_

 

A few minutes later, accounting for a fair amount of deducing time, his phone pinged to signal a new text.

 

_Relaying my undead brother’s messages again, John? – MH_

 

_He’s not a zombie, Mycroft. You can’t refer to him as undead. – JW_

 

Mycroft apparently didn’t have a response to that and John slipped his phone back into his pocket, satisfied with his work.

 

It was a while before John had another one of those days. It wasn’t every day, but they came often enough. Grief comes in waves and these had long been threatening to drown John Watson. It was on a day like that when John decided to go for a walk. Without thinking, he ended up on the same path he and Sherlock had normally walked when they needed to get out of the flat for a while. It had started to rain about twenty minutes after John had left Baker Street and the rain mingled with the tears on the doctor’s cheeks. He didn’t duck out of the steady rain like many others on the pavement. He just kept walking until he reached the park bench he had sat on with Sherlock more times than he could remember. He sat there for a very long time just pondering. The rain fit with his mood, but eventually he started to shiver. He was soaked to the skin, so he stood up stiffly and started making his way back toward Baker Street.

 

When he got inside, he kicked off his soaked shoes and climbed the stairs to the flat. He kept going up into his bedroom and changed into something dry. When he got back downstairs, he started the kettle boiling water for tea and went to get his mug. In the cupboard next to his mug was Sherlock’s mug and on top of that sat a crane. It was a pretty, pale pink, the colour of Sherlock’s lips. It was a testament to the kind of day he’d had that John didn’t even feel odd thinking that. He took his tea and the crane to his chair and opened it up.

 

_Saw you again today. I wish you wouldn’t cry._

 

Predictably, John’s breath hitched and a couple of tears slid down his face. It was a bad day today, but maybe Sherlock was sharing in his bad day. Maybe the burden was a little bit lighter in the sharing.

 

The week only went downhill from there. People were combative about Sherlock, the weather was uncooperative and John was emotionally exhausted. By the end of a day near the end of the week, he was ready to be done. Someone at Scotland Yard was mouthing off to him about Sherlock and asking why John still believed in him after all this time. Had any other week preceded that conversation, he would have defended his friend to the ends of the Earth. But the week had been hard and long and painful and his endurance was wearing thin.

 

After five minutes of trying very hard to muster up a defence for his friend, John started shrugging and making noncommittal noises. Then he waved the person off and tried to get away from the conversation. He felt like giving up. This wasn’t how sticking up for someone you love was supposed to feel. By the time he’d reached Baker Street, he was out of it and ready to collapse on his bed. He went straight upstairs and started getting undressed. Before he could flop down and go to sleep, he noticed a warm honey coloured crane waiting for him in the middle of the bed. It had been such a trying day that he’d almost forgotten to expect a little missive from his friend. Sitting down, John unfolded the paper and read it.

 

_Don’t give up on me._

 

Breathing out, John let the tension seep out of his shoulders. No, he wouldn’t give up on Sherlock. Despite how hard it would continue to be. He never could say no to his best friend, not really. At the end of that long day, John fell back on his bed and went to sleep much more content than he had in over a week.

 

A little over a week later, John was on his way back to visit the Yarders. He was a bit apprehensive about the trip after the arguments he’d had the last time he was there. But he wanted to see Lestrade, so off to Scotland Yard he went. Once again, his cab had another passenger in the form of a cerulean blue crane on the seat beside him. He picked it up and opened the note.

 

_Tell Lestrade I will never forgive him if he quits._

 

John set his mouth in a grim line. Greg was not going to give up either, damn it. He made his way to Lestrade’s office with a determination he hadn’t shown in a while. Ignoring the other people around, John walked inside the DI’s office and shut the door before his friend could say anything to him.

 

“Are you thinking about quitting?” John asked accusingly.

 

Greg’s sigh and dropped gaze spoke for themselves. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about it for a while now.  I’ve been getting a lot of flak for sticking up for Sherlock. You know that. I don’t want to quit, but it’s getting harder to stay.”

 

Shaking his head, John looked at him in disappointment. “I’m his best friend; you think it’s been worse for you? I can’t quit, so why do you get to?” Greg sighed again. “ _He’d_ never forgive you if you quit.” The Detective Inspector looked up at John sharply. He didn’t say anything about his supposedly dead friend, but he nodded.

 

“I guess I can hold out a bit longer then,” he replied, before deliberately moving the topic of conversation away from Sherlock’s opinion of him. John left at the end of that afternoon feeling somewhat reassured.

 

Things were calmer for the next week with only mundane messages from Sherlock and no extraordinary interactions with people. One afternoon, John was just sitting down on the sofa with a cup of tea when Mrs Hudson called for him. He set his tea down and hurried down the stairs to make sure nothing was seriously wrong. Ultimately, she was fine, but John was down in her flat for at least fifteen minutes. When he got back to his sofa, bemoaning how cold his tea would be, there was a yellow crane sitting beside his now empty teacup. He opened it right away, sitting on the sofa to read.

 

_Thank you for the tea._

 

Shaking his head with something approaching a smile on his face, John put this crane with the others and got up to make more tea. It would be just like his best friend to only eat or drink what wasn’t his.

 

It wasn’t long after that John started thinking. He was bored and depressed most days, sitting around the flat and occasionally watching crap telly with Mrs Hudson. The highlights of his weeks were visits to the cemetery and Scotland Yard. His life was a bit messed up. So he started thinking; maybe he could do something until Sherlock came back, or until he stopped thinking that Sherlock would come back. Maybe he could go back to the Army in some capacity. His shoulder was healed and his hand didn’t shake, when there was adrenalin in his blood. Mycroft had been right (though he hated to admit that) the first time he’d been kidnapped by a shiny black sedan. He did miss the war.

 

It would keep him from being bored and hopefully keep the limp away. It was a good idea when he went to bed that night. When he woke up in the morning, there was a blood red crane sitting on his chest, staring condescendingly down its paper beak at him. He opened it with a sigh and read the message inside.

 

_Don’t go back to the Army_

 

Was it commanding or pleading? John couldn’t tell. Perhaps it was both. Who really knew with Sherlock Holmes? Either way, he wouldn’t intentionally disobey his friend’s request. Not this one at least. John crossed the Army off his mental list of things to do when he was bored.

 

He moped around the flat in boredom the rest of the day. He watched some sort of game show and then some sort of chat show with a celebrity whose name he did not even care to know. He ate a bit and had some tea, but he felt a bit like a ghost in his own home. It was like he wasn’t even making an impression on the flat anymore. He went to bed that night feeling like he hadn’t really been awake at all.

 

The morning came, too bright and too early, and there was a blue crane sitting on the unused pillow of John’s bed. It was much more polite than the last one, at least. John opened it warily.

 

_Go work at another surgery or something_

 

Huffing a relieved laugh, John got up and went to do just that.

 

Two weeks later, John was trying to get ready for his first day at the surgery and he couldn’t find his keys. They weren’t in his coat pockets, they weren’t in his trouser pockets, they weren’t in his room, they weren’t in the lounge, they weren’t on the sofa. He went back downstairs to the coatrack to check his pockets again and found a crane instead. It was a soft, calm sea foam green colour. He opened it, only slightly annoyed now.

 

_Your keys are on the mantle._

 

John shook his head in faint amusement and climbed the stairs to find the keys exactly where Sherlock had said they’d be. Perhaps he had been the one to put them there. Shaking his head again, this time to clear crazy thoughts from it, John picked up his keys and dashed downstairs so as not to be late on his first day.

 

The next couple of weeks were mundane in the best of ways. It was almost a routine for John. He worked four days a week, visited Sherlock’s grave one day, visited Lestrade one day and relaxed the final day. Most days he came home after work to a crane from Sherlock with some mundane sort of message. Places he’d visited, cases he’d solved in the paper, how annoying Mycroft had been. It was all very comfortable, too comfortable and much too normal.

 

The week before Christmas he woke up to a grey-blue crane, sort of the colour of the sky right before it decides to rain out the picnic you had been hoping to have. It was the first sentimental message John had received in a while. He opened it whilst still in bed.

 

_I still wish you were here._

 

Sighing, John forced himself out of bed and down to the kitchen to make tea. He would rather stay in bed on a day like this. It was cold and bleak and he was sad, but he had to go to the surgery and help people with Christmas colds feel better.

 

The week was boring and cold, a bit of slush mucking up the streets of London, and on Christmas Eve, John came home to a festively patterned crane sitting on the tree. He smiled. It was still hard having Christmas without Sherlock, and that was an issue he was not planning on exploring with his therapist, but it was nice that his best friend’s presence was still in the flat.

 

_Merry Christmas, John_

 

The note warmed him as he went to put it with the others before indulging in a nice glass of eggnog with Mrs Hudson. Lestrade would be there soon, Jeff and Helena, and a few of the other Yarders who he’d made friends with over the past year had said they’d stop by. It wouldn’t be such a bad Christmas.

 

In the morning, John awoke to a bit of real snow outside and the oddest feeling. He couldn’t quite place it. He walked down the stairs to the kitchen and started making tea. It was only when he poked his head out to ask Sherlock if he’d like any, that it hit him. Christmas morning had felt normal, because last night had felt so normal, because he’d felt Sherlock there the whole time.

 

John put the second mug away and finished making his tea, before taking it out to his armchair. Sitting under the tree was a lumpy package that hadn’t been there the night before. On top of it sat another festively patterned crane. He opened the crane first.

 

_I thought it would suit you_

 

Assuming it would make sense in conjunction with the gift, John tore off the wrapping paper without hesitation. The lumpy package turned out to be a rather warm looking jumper in his size. It was a dark blue and incredibly soft. He slipped it on over his jimjams. It fit perfectly and was so comfortably warm.

 

“Thank you, Sherlock,” he said with a smile.

 

Two days after Boxing Day, a crane sat perched nearly on John’s nose. It was on his pillow and staring at him as if willing him to wake up. He didn’t have to imagine its creator doing the same thing because he had, more than once. Sighing, John opened the note.

 

_Tell my mother I’m sorry for being difficult._

 

“Huh?” John responded, quite articulate for the first thing in the morning. He got out of bed and made his way to the kitchen for tea and toast. Halfway through his toast, his phone started ringing from the pocket of his dressing gown. It was actually ringing. Someone was phoning him, not just texting. A bit surprised, he picked up the phone. “Hello?”

 

“Good morning Dr Watson.” It was Mycroft. He should have known. “I am calling to inform you that a car will arrive at Baker Street within the hour to take you to the Holmes Manor. Mummy wishes to see you. Good day.”

 

“Uh…bye,” John replied, very confused and very overwhelmed. _Mummy_? Mrs Holmes wanted to see him? Well, at least he’d have a chance to relay Sherlock’s message. Sherlock must have been aware; that’s why he’d left that note today of all days. John jumped up, went to shower and change before the car arrived. He pulled on his new jumper and slipped the crane from Sherlock into his trouser pocket. Whether it was for strength or luck, he wasn’t sure.

 

Fifty-three minutes exactly after Mycroft’s phone call, a black sedan pulled up outside the flat and John went downstairs, calling to Mrs Hudson that he was going out and not to expect him until later. The ride to Holmes Manor was silent. Mycroft was not in the car, but Anthea was. She tapped away on her Blackberry, ignoring him completely. Just as John was beginning to doze off against the window, the car slowed as it pulled up to a large wrought iron gate. A flourished ‘H’ adorned the centre of the gate and it swung open as the driver entered his code. The house at the top of the drive was indeed a manor. The grounds seemed extensive from what John could see and the house itself was majestic, sitting atop a small hill. This was where Sherlock grew up?

 

Mycroft met John at the front door and ushered him inside and out of the cold. There was more snow here than in London and the wind was a bit nippier, too. “Just this way, John. Mummy would like to meet you in the library.” John nodded and followed Mycroft to a large library with floor to ceiling shelves that were absolutely filled with all manner of books on every subject imaginable. There were a handful of rolling ladders and a large, antique desk. There was also a coffee table and two stuffed leather sofas. The far wall had a window seat that was currently acting as a shelf for piles of books and papers. The room was exquisite, but far from tidy. John allowed himself a tiny smile. Sherlock made just a bit more sense now. An elderly butler brought in a tea service and set it on the coffee table. He poured John a cup of tea, exactly as he liked it without needing to ask. Mycroft’s doing no doubt. John sipped the tea (which was delicious) and decided that he didn’t much care.

 

The man had just finished fixing a second cup of tea when a woman’s voice rang out across the room. “That will be all, Caruthers. Thank you.” It was not unkind, merely concise. Her voice was low for a woman’s. John imagined she might have been a low alto or even a tenor if she had been a singer, but her voice reminded him so much of Sherlock’s. It had the same soft, smooth quality, like velvet or caramel or honey. “Good day, Dr Watson.”

 

“And to you Mrs Holmes. Thank you for having me over.”

 

She smirked a bit, and by God if it didn’t remind him painfully of his best friend. “I simply wished to see how you were getting along without my youngest. It has been over eighteen months and you still visit your friends at Scotland Yard every week, still visit the cemetery every week, though you have recently returned to work at a surgery near your flat. All of this is according to Mycroft. Though I do wish he would leave you in peace, it is useful information.”

 

John nodded shakily. This was weird. It was exactly like being in the room with your friend’s parents when they’d gone to use the loo. He felt like he was twelve years old all over again. “Yes I have just started back at the surgery. I was getting bored. I suppose Sherlock rubbed off on me a bit.” He didn’t notice the way Mrs Holmes stiffened at the mention of her son’s name.

 

“Yes, he was like that,” she replied.

 

“Mrs Holmes,” John began nervously. He tried to casually slip his thumb into his pocket, just enough to feel the crane folded flat within. “Sherlock wanted me to tell you that he’s sorry, for being difficult and everything.” This time he did notice her slight shudder and he paid a bit more attention to her.

 

She nodded. “Do you do this a lot then? Make amends for…”

 

“For Sherlock?” She shuddered again. “Yeah, I’ve been cleaning up after him since I met him. He could never be bothered to worry about how people were affected by what he said to them. I know it was hard for people, but I don’t mind mopping up his messes.”

 

“You’re a good friend, Dr Watson.”

 

“Thank you, ma’am. May I ask why you won’t say his name?”

 

A wobbly smile stretched across her lips. “Because it hurts to say it. We argued often, too much alike I suppose. I hadn’t seen or spoken with him for some months beforehand and I suspect he was cross with me. I suppose I feel guilty for not making amends whereas he had the strength to pass the message through you at the end.”

 

“It took him longer than you’d think,” John muttered. “I’m sure he knew. He always knew. And he was never one to waste an apology on someone who didn’t matter.” It was the best he could think to say at the time. An emotional Holmes was not something John ever expected to encounter, but he supposed a mother losing a son she had been arguing with counted as extenuating circumstances, even for a Holmes.

 

“Thank you, Dr Watson. I’ll have the car return you to Baker Street once you’ve finished your tea. I apologize for dragging you out here on such short notice.”

 

“No problem at all, Mrs Holmes,” John replied with a smile. Five minutes later he was shrugging on his coat by the door with Mycroft walking up behind him to escort him out.

 

“That is a very nice jumper, Doctor,” he said suspiciously.

 

John turned a half smile on Mycroft. “Yes, I quite like it. A gift from your brother, actually.” Then he walked out to the car, leaving a slightly stunned Mycroft in his wake. Sherlock would appreciate that.

 

The next day was John’s first day back at work after the holiday and he got up to carry on with his usual routine. After he was dressed and ready to leave for work, he walked downstairs to put on his coat and shoes. There was a scarf he recognized, but hadn’t seen in a long time, hanging on one of the coat hooks. It wasn’t Sherlock’s usual scarf, but it was one that he wore every now and then. It was a forest green and there was a matching crane balance at the very top of it. John pulled it down and read the note inside.

 

_It’s going to be cold, bundle up._

 

Smiling a tiny bit, John placed the crane in his coat pocket and wrapped the scarf around his neck before heading out to work. Sure enough, it was freezing cold outside, but he was warm and safe in Sherlock’s scarf.

 

On New Year’s Day, John woke up to a slight hangover and a crane on his pillow. He took it with him downstairs and opened it while he made some tea and found some paracetamol. It was blue with little white stars all over it and this crane had a particularly cheerful demeanour. John wondered if it should worry him that he was assigning personality traits and thoughts to tiny paper birds, but he figured it didn’t really matter. If he was imagining his best friend being alive, what was a bit more madness?

 

_Happy New Year, John_

 

John smiled and sipped at his tea. It was shaping up to be a nice, lazy day in the flat.

 

The month of January was fairly boring. John didn’t have much interesting news and Sherlock apparently didn’t either. No apologies he wanted John to convey, just cases he seemed proud of solving. He hadn’t even asked John to take clues to Lestrade in a while. Near the end of the month, there was a case that had stumped the Yard for a while. Lestrade had complained about it a few days earlier, when John had been in to visit. Now it was in the papers. When John went downstairs to make his tea for the morning, there was a crane sitting happily on his kettle. It was pink, baby pink and John snickered just a bit.

 

_Page A3, it was the ballet dancer_

 

John opened up that day’s paper, which Mrs Hudson had brought up for him. Sure enough, there was the case Lestrade had been frustrated with. Fishing his phone out of the pocket of his dressing gown, John shot a text to his friend at Scotland Yard.

 

_About that case you can’t crack, question the ballet dancer again. – JW_

_Why? We didn’t get anything the first time. – GL_

_She’s the killer. – JW_

_And you know this how? – GL_

_Anonymous tip – JW_

 

The following week there was an article in the paper saying that the ballet dancer had been arrested for the murder. Scotland Yard was thanking an anonymous tip for the information. John smiled a little bit to himself. Sherlock would like that.

 

February had turned cold and bleak within two days and John was sure this winter would never really end. He got home one evening from the surgery shaking the slush from his hair and stomping it off his boots. Mrs Hudson met him by the door, telling him that a freshly baked plate of biscuits was waiting upstairs for him. He thanked her and went upstairs, trying to shake away the chill of the day. When he reached the sofa, and collapsed comfortably on it, he noticed a cheery yellow crane sitting on the plate of biscuits. John picked it up and wondered what inanity his friend had sent him today.

 

_Tell Mrs Hudson thanks for the biscuit._

 

“Thanks for the biscuits, Mrs Hudson,” he called down through the open door. That would have to do. He didn’t want his wonderful landlady to think he was crazy by telling her that Sherlock was grateful for today’s batch. John ate a biscuit and then lied down and promptly fell asleep.

 

By the end of the week, John was miserable. It wasn’t just the weather and his emotions. He was feeling poorly, so he took a couple of days off from the surgery and went upstairs to sleep. He woke up several hours later, not feeling much better, but finally feeling hungry. There was a crane, a soft green one that seemed almost caring, if caring hadn’t been beneath its maker.

 

_You’re ill; there is chicken soup in the kitchen._

 

John smiled and forced himself out of bed and down to the kitchen. Sure enough, there was a takeaway container of chicken soup in the fridge. He heated it up and sat down at the table to eat it. It was wonderful and warmed him from the inside out. That was the best he’d felt in days. He went back upstairs after eating it and proceeded to sleep the rest of his illness away.

 

The cranes were mundane for the next few weeks and the weather had even started to warm up. It was still chilly and damp, but not as freezing as it had been. John had woken up to cranes most mornings during those weeks and he wondered absently one night if Sherlock realized how creepy that would be coming from anyone else. He assumed that his best friend probably didn’t realize that, ignorant of societal norms as he was. The morning of his weekly trip to the cemetery, John awoke to find a crane sitting on the pillow beside him. It wasn’t facing him as usual and looked almost embarrassed to be there, like perhaps it had heard his thoughts from the night before.

 

_I realize this is probably stalking, but I miss you_

 

John chuckled. It was the closest to a real laugh he’d experienced in a long time. Just like Sherlock to be a mind reader. He placed the crane with the others and dressed warmly for his trip. At his friend’s grave, he talked, as he usually did, hoping that Sherlock was there or had bugged the headstone to listen in. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. It was also entirely possible that some minion of Mycroft’s was listening in and had gotten an earful of some very interesting one-sided conversations.

 

“You can stalk me anytime, Sherlock. You’re the only person I’d ever want to stalk me. I mean, Mycroft does, obviously, but I have no control over that and I appreciate it about as much as you do. Except when he sends Lestrade to help us. Then it’s alright, but still a little weird. Anyway, I don’t mind and I miss you, too.” Then he pressed a kiss to his fingertips and pressed his fingers to the stone before walking away.

 

Life was normal, or as normal as getting daily notes from your supposedly dead flatmate could be, for John until the middle of March when he found a bright, cheerful, blue crane sitting on the windowsill. It was late afternoon and he was getting ready to go out to dinner with Lestrade and Molly and Mrs Hudson and few of the other Yarders for Lestrade’s birthday. He half expected Mycroft to make an appearance, like he had the previous year. It was only for a moment to wish the Detective Inspector well and then he was on his way, but John wouldn’t be surprised if he stayed a bit longer this year. Those two seemed to be developing some sort of bond from all of this. John suspected they were conspiring to take care of him, but he had no proof yet.

 

John walked over toward the crane on the windowsill as he finished buttoning his shirt. He picked it up and opened it.

 

_Tell Lestrade Happy Birthday_

 

At the restaurant, everyone was gathered around the table, chatting and smiling. John wasn’t laughing, but he was enjoying himself with his friends nonetheless. He didn’t laugh very much these days, but not for lack of enjoyment. Things just weren’t as funny to him without Sherlock poking holes in everything and making deductions in his ear at social gatherings. He missed that a lot. Mycroft had dropped in, for a whole fifteen minutes this time, and without Anthea. Whilst he was there, the others had decided it was a good time to sing and Lestrade laughed along with their ridiculous harmonies. John picked up a glass for a toast.

 

“To Greg, Happy Birthday, from _all_ of us,” he said, hoping that would be good enough, and clinked glasses with his friends. He noticed Mycroft’s eyes flick to him and narrow slightly. John could feel the deductions being pulled from his appearance, so he kept his face carefully blank. No need to make it any easier. Apparently the elder Holmes was satisfied with his toast and kept his theories to himself for the time being.

 

The next week was hard, worrying about what other people thought, how long Sherlock had been away, what he was doing, what Mycroft might do if he found out about the cranes, and even about whether or not the cranes were a figment of his imagination. It was a lot for John to deal with and on his day off, he didn’t want to get out of bed. He lied there for ten minutes, keeping his eyes closed and trying to convince himself he was still asleep. It didn’t work. Eventually he opened them and saw a dark red crane sitting on the pillow beside him, watching him sleep. He opened it and hoped it would make him feel better.

 

_You are the reason I get out of bed in the morning._

 

A soft smile spread over John’s face. He didn’t know what exactly Sherlock meant, probably nothing like the romantic mush it sounded like, but it was enough. John got up and went downstairs. He had some tea and shower and went out to do the shopping. He was in such a good mood, in fact, that when he spotted a man selling daffodils on the way home, he stopped and bought a bunch for Mrs Hudson. She was delighted, of course, and told him how good it was to see him smiling again. It hadn’t occurred to him that he had been smiling most of the day.

 

The cranes were fairly normal, mundane and non-judgemental until a few days into April. John could tell by the lazy strokes of the letters and the overall meaning behind the messages that Sherlock was getting bored. He must have been waiting for something, but it wasn’t happening quickly enough, apparently. That was the only explanation John could come up with. On the second of April, he came home to a crane perched comfortably in the middle of the kitchen table. It was robin’s egg blue and speckled with flecks of white. It was incredibly pretty, but the message within made John smile with fondness.

 

_I’ve read through half a library out of boredom_

 

And he’d probably deleted most of it by the next day. John just smiled and carried on with his day. It had been fairly nice. A new doctor had started work at the surgery and she was nice and very pretty. He didn’t know what it meant, him thinking about women at all again, but it was a nice step toward normal.

 

The following week, on his regular trip to the Yard, John saw Mycroft leaving Lestrade’s office. He was only a couple of metres away when his best friend’s brother looked up from the business card in his hand and stared at John in something that was shockingly close to surprise, for a Holmes. John’s eyes flitted over Mycroft, intentionally imitating Sherlock and with the same purpose.

 

“You and Greg are conspiring to check my mental health,” he said. It wasn’t really a question. “The only things you two really had in common at the start of all this were me and Sherlock. Unless you’re having grief counselling, which I highly doubt, it must be something about me and since you’re holding the business card for a psychiatrist, I would deduce that you want to make sure I didn’t lose my sanity when your brother jumped off a roof.” A self-satisfied smirk pulled at John’s lips when Mycroft stared at him, slightly dumbfounded.

 

He coughed to clear the shock from his features. “Sherlock understated your intelligence.”

 

John huffed a short laugh. “That was practically his M.O. You are both more than welcome to come by Baker Street and ask me anything you like. I’m as sane as you.” Mycroft nodded and stepped around John toward the lifts. John continued into Lestrade’s office and settled into the chair. Greg had the grace to look a bit sheepish, but John didn’t bring it up. When he got home, there was a lime green crane on the coffee table, patiently waiting for him to get home.

 

_Excellent deduction today_

 

His face lit up in a smile. Sherlock was proud of him. While that was not exactly uncommon, it was rarely expressed and he had missed those tiny moments.

 

There was an odd period of time as April bled into May and John had taken to talking things through with the skull. They would make decisions and he would talk about difficult diagnoses from the surgery and they would discuss where they thought Sherlock had gone and what they thought he was doing. It was oddly comforting. He could see why Sherlock had done it for so long and sometimes, he wondered why Sherlock had bothered to bring him along at all. The skull was perfectly good company and very useful as a sounding board. When he got up the next morning, he went downstairs and had his tea before realizing that a pale grey crane was sitting on top of the skull. It was nearly the same colour as the bone, so he hadn’t noticed it at first. He plucked it off the top of the skull and opened it to read.

 

_You were always so much better than the skull_

 

That was nice to know. It made him feel good and proud and like he had meant something to Sherlock, too. But he continued to talk to the skull as his best friend had once done. He wondered when he would tire of only hearing his own voice, but it was better than complete silence, he supposed.

 

Late in May, John, Lestrade and Mycroft had planned a little dinner for Mrs Hudson’s birthday. They had invited some of the other Yarders and Molly. They were going out to the Indian restaurant she liked so much, but it was going to be a surprise. Greg would be there in an hour to whisk them off to dinner. John was just finishing getting ready when he walked into the lounge and saw a soft lavender crane sitting on an empty plate that had once held Mrs Hudson biscuits.

 

_Tell Mrs Hudson Happy Birthday_

 

Later that evening, when everyone was cheery with food and alcohol, John put an arm around Mrs Hudson and told her quietly, “Happy Birthday Mrs Hudson, from all of us, even the ones that couldn’t be here.” She knew who he was talking about and kissed him firmly on the cheek. Somehow, Sherlock was fixing the world around John without even being there to enjoy the spoils.

 

On the second anniversary of the fall, John didn’t go to work. He’d taken the day off and wasn’t answering people’s calls. It was fine. No one really expected him to. He went down to the cemetery as usual and trudged out to the headstone. It was a hot June day and the grass was thick and green. It had rained only a couple of days before. But that wasn’t why John was struggling out to the graveside. His leg was bothering him, but he refused to acknowledge it. It wasn’t real and Sherlock had proved that time and time again.

 

When he reached the graveside, he looked around cautiously. He didn’t seen Mycroft or any of his minions, or indeed anyone at all. That was good. Then he spotted a midnight blue crane perched on the headstone. He picked it up and wondered if it would make him feel better. Probably not, he reasoned.

 

_It’s been two years and it’s gotten harder to be away._

 

“Then come home,” he said aloud. He didn’t know if Sherlock would hear him or if Mycroft would question his sanity again, but he didn’t really care. It both made him feel better and worse. He was even sadder that he hadn’t seen his best friend in two years and he was comforted by the fact that Sherlock was also perturbed by this fact. After an hour of sitting there, he pressed a kiss to his fingers and pressed his fingertips to the stone before trudging back toward the road and a cab.

 

John didn’t have work the next day, so he stayed home. When he finally got up and went to make tea, he found a very dark green crane sitting on his mug. He picked it up and sighed. He almost wanted it to be something that would make him feel awful because something mundane would only trivialize his pain. Not that Sherlock wouldn’t normally trivialize John’s pain, but it was unlikely that Sherlock would trivialize his own pain.

 

_I’m told this gets easier_

 

It did make him feel awful, but in a weird sort of way. Sherlock had no idea about this sort of thing, so it was no surprise that he was unaware that grief came in waves. Today was one of those drowning sort of waves. It would pass. John wasn’t sure how much longer they could take and he’d stopped counting the cranes and days because he didn’t want to be disappointed.

 

The next morning, he woke up early to get ready for work and found a very light yellow crane sitting in front of the toaster. He had almost missed it in his rush to get tea and toast ready before he had a shower and got dressed for the day.

 

_They lied._

 

Scrunching up his eyebrows, John stared at it for a full minute before realizing that Sherlock was continuing his thoughts from the previous day again. He smiled. So perceptive, his Sherlock.

 

A week later, John was walking home from work and had passed by a violinist busking on a corner. The song was lovely and it reminded him of the nights that Sherlock had played his violin at ungodly hours. But he would stop if John asked or would play some ethereal lullaby whenever he knew John had had a nightmare. It was calming.

 

When he got back to the flat, he sat down on the sofa and then noticed a crane sitting over on the music stand by the window. It was the one Sherlock used when he was composing or learning a new piece. John hadn’t moved it from where it stood and he wouldn’t have noticed the crane at all if it hadn’t been a rather alarming shade of orange.

 

_I composed a song for you today_

 

John smiled sadly. He would ask to hear it once Sherlock got back and then he would go back to complaining about the violin at three in the morning. But when he had nightmares of lanky limbs and a fluttering great coat falling from a rooftop, Sherlock would play that song and he’d go back to sleep right away. There was no evidence that this was true, but John was completely convinced of it and that was good enough.

 

A week of mundane days and nights passed without incident. One day, warm and sunny, John came home from the store to find a bright red crane siting on the kitchen counter. He put the groceries away around the crane and only opened it when he had finished.

 

_Tell Mycroft to call off his sniffer dogs._

 

The note was written in a hurry and Sherlock had obviously been annoyed when he wrote it. Apparently his brother was being particularly infuriating and Mycroft’s minions were trying to close in on him today. John sighed and got out his phone to intervene.

 

_Call off your sniffer dogs or minions or whatever you want to call them. – JW_

 

The reply was delayed by a minute. Mycroft must have been thinking about it.

 

_I assure you Dr Watson, your surveillance is no more invasive than usual. I’ve sent no sniffer dogs to follow you. – MH_

 

Oh Mycroft, pleading ignorance. It was so very him and so very annoying.

 

_I know. And I know you know what I’m talking about. Call them off, Mycroft. – JW_

 

Mycroft didn’t reply to that and John was starting to take pride in leaving Mycroft textless. Considering that he didn’t get a message berating Mycroft the next day, John assumed that the sniffer dogs had, in fact, been called off and Mycroft’s lackeys had gone back to less irritating methods of surveillance.

 

Two days later, Harry was texted John and asked if they could have dinner together soon. They set a day about a week and a half after that. Harry had said she wanted to see how John was doing and he secretly thought she wanted to make amends and maybe get some financial support. Her latest girlfriend had moved out a month ago and she said she was trying to get sober. John wanted that to be true, but he wasn’t sure he trusted Harry’s word alone.

 

When they went out to dinner, both John and Harry ordered water with their meal and they talked for a long time. They weren’t even fighting, which should have been a tip off. Harry was obviously working really hard to keep things civil. John went home after that evening feeling good, but very odd. He found a dreary, green-grey crane sitting in the middle of his bed. It’s head was bowed sadly, like it didn’t want to face him.

 

_She’s not as sober as she wants you to think. I’m sorry._

 

John sat down on his bed. He’d had his suspicions, but Sherlock telling him had solidified it. He sighed. He should have known when Harry wasn’t even sniping at him like usual. Well, nothing was different than before they’d had dinner. He’d gotten his hopes up, though and it was disappointing to see his sister drink herself into an early grave when she said she was trying to do better. John went to bed upset that night, but woke up a little better. Sherlock was still looking out for him.

 

The next week, John came home from work intent on making himself a cup of tea and relaxing for a few hours. Once he got up the stairs and into the kitchen, he realized that he was out of milk and had forgotten to stop at the store and pick up more. Sighing, he opened the fridge, hoping that maybe he was wrong and there was milk after all. What he didn’t expect to find was a full jug of milk on the shelf with a cream coloured crane leaning jauntily against it.

 

_I bought milk_

 

John smiled fondly. “Thanks Sherlock,” he said quietly, taking out the milk and fixing up his tea just the way he liked it. Then he sat down in his chair and sipped his tea. It took dying for Sherlock to do something as considerate as buy milk. Figures.

 

Every now and then, on a trip to the Yard, John found himself in an argument with someone about Sherlock. It didn’t happen as often as it had at the beginning, partially because he had worked his way through most of the disbelievers and partially because it was past the two year mark and fewer people felt like fighting. The one person who never tired of fighting with John about Sherlock was Anderson.

 

On one of John’s regular visits to Scotland Yard to see Greg and some of his other friends, Anderson started making waves. The two of them had been going at it for a while. John was bringing up their recent issue with Moriarty’s criminal empire and Anderson would bring up the suicide call and Rich Brook’s entire life.

 

“He was never living in this world. Life was just a game of chess to him and you were a pawn! You’re a fool if you think he was a hero,” Anderson said loudly.

 

John held back a sneer. “He never claimed to be a hero and that made him even more of one when he gave his life for the rest of us,” John replied, walking into Lestrade’s office to have the last word. He talked a good game and he really believed what he’d been saying to Anderson, but fights like this wore on him. Constantly being at odds with people, on his own, was exhausting. He went home that evening tired and discouraged and hoping for a positive note from his friend. When he walked into the flat, there was a black and white patterned crane sitting on the kitchen counter.

 

_You’re not a pawn in my chess game._

 

It was decisive and the writing was firm. It was as sloppy as usual, but not hurried or frantic. That, in and of itself, was enough to reassure John of the truth of that statement. He went to sleep that night with less worry than he had in a while. Anderson’s jibes couldn’t get to him if Sherlock was always there telling him he was important.

 

Eventually, John went and had lunch with Harry. He didn’t know why he tortured himself sometimes, but he had a weak spot for family and being walked all over by people he loved. So he had lunch with his sister, despite the fact that they were horrible to each other on a regular basis. It was two weeks since he’d argued with Anderson and he’d been getting simple, mundane messages from Sherlock. There were no more reassuring messages, and there was no need for them. John hadn’t been accosted in those two weeks, but he honestly should have expected that to end when his sister walked into the café.

 

“Have you ever thought that you were just a game to him?” Harry asked about halfway through their lunch. It wasn’t a shocking question; they’d been throwing vaguely insulting barbs at each other for the better part of an hour already. John clenched his jaw and didn’t reply. “Really, John. I’m curious. Did you really think he was honest and real or did you just not think at all?”

 

“I know he’s real, Harry.” He refused to say anything more about it, but that didn’t stop Harry from making comments sporadically throughout the rest of the afternoon.

 

John headed home in funk. He wanted to believe in Sherlock; he always wanted to believe. It wasn’t easy right now, though. These days, people couldn’t understand how he was still so hung up on his best friend’s death, on defending him. It had been over two years. He was supposed to be moving on, apparently. When he got home there was a small blue crane sitting on the coffee table. It was royal blue and pleaded with him, begged to be opened. So John opened it and sat down on the sofa.

 

_You were never a game._

 

With a sigh and a tight smile, John went and put the crane with the others. It was reassuring, even if he wished it was in person instead of via crane notes and semi-creepy stalking.

 

Two weeks later, John had his first date in well over two years. Her name was Mary and she was a grade school teacher he had met when she came into the surgery with flu. She was very pretty and sweet and she’d asked him if he’d like to get dinner sometime. After a moment of hesitation, he’d said yes and surprised even himself. Now the night of their date had actually come and John was getting nervous. It wasn’t just that he was rusty in the dating area, but he felt almost like he was betraying Sherlock if he brought someone new into his life. Shaking the thought from his head, John straightened his jumper and left the flat.

 

He had a nice dinner and a nice evening overall with Mary. She’d told him she wanted to see him again and he even thought that would be nice. It still felt weird, like cheating almost, but that didn’t make sense. When he got back to Baker Street, there was a crane waiting for him. It sat heavily on the mantel, judging him with its non-existent eyes. It was deep green and it watched John with painful jealousy, like its maker must have earlier in the evening. John picked it up with a sigh. Nothing good could come of a crane that looked at him with such emotion.

 

_She was married once before_.

 

John could just hear Sherlock saying that in his most petulant voice. It didn’t matter that she’d been married before. Everyone had a past. John had enough for several people, if he was being completely honest. So he set his mind to seeing where this relationship would go without Sherlock’s omni-present input.

 

It was early in September when before John got another note that asked him to do something. The last week or two, Sherlock had been staying away from the subject of John’s new girlfriend and had been just sending him mundane messages about books and little cases he’d solved in a day or less. When he woke up that morning, there was a dark maroon crane sitting on the extra pillow on John’s bed. It looked serious and John opened it right away.

 

_Burn today’s paper, John. You don’t want to read it._

 

So that’s what John did. He didn’t ask questions when Sherlock wrote at him with such authority. He never did find out what horrible thing happened that day. It was probably something about Sherlock or Moriarty, but John just relaxed on the sofa with a cuppa and crap telly all day long. It was surprisingly refreshing to not worry about anything for a little while.

 

Autumn was setting in and despite how well his new relationship was going, John found himself walking by himself in Hyde Park. He enjoyed the leaves turning and the wind rustling through the trees. He and Sherlock had walked the same route several times, but now he walked it alone. One such afternoon, John headed home from his walk and found an autumn orange crane sitting on the coffee table. He made his tea and sat down to read it.

 

_London seems less lovely by myself._

 

John smiled sadly at the similarity of their thoughts. He didn’t go out the rest of the day and contented himself to watching telly and drinking tea and trying not to think of how empty the city seemed, regardless of the 8 million people living there. He wished Sherlock would hurry up and come home, or stop teasing him with the promise of it. He’d really prefer the former, but even John knew that was a long shot.

 

The following Thursday had John coming home from the surgery and getting ready to go out to dinner. He wasn’t taking Mary, but rather Mrs Hudson and Greg. They were headed off to Angelo’s to pay the owner a visit. It was Angelo’s birthday and they all wanted to celebrate with him. When John got out of the shower there was a bright purple crane sitting on top of his folded shirt for the evening. He opened it quickly, not wanting to delay their departure.

 

_Tell Angelo Happy Birthday._

 

He smiled down at the messy scrawl. Then he dug out the card he had bought. He’d just signed his name next to Lestrade’s and Mrs Hudson’s, but now he wrote along the top, “Happy Birthday, from all of us.” He hoped Angelo would understand what he meant.

 

Dinner that evening was nice and Angelo joined them for dessert and champagne. He opened his card and gave John a fond smile. He thanked them all for his lovely evening and they departed in high spirits. Even John wasn’t as out of it as usual. Lestrade took note, but said nothing, preferring to sling an arm around his friend’s shoulders in buzzed delight and enjoy the ride back to their respective homes.

 

Things were starting to get serious with Mary and John had taken to walking with her through the park. Not the same route he and Sherlock used to take, that was almost sacred, but amongst the coloured leaves and through the autumn sunshine. It had only been two months and he was more than smitten. It was more than he’d felt for someone in a very long time, since before Sherlock jumped and probably since before Sherlock had waltzed into his life. He got home after one of his and Mary’s walks and found a grey-blue crane on the kitchen table. It looked at him forlornly, as if it was a puppy he’d left alone all day. He picked it up, sighing a sad sigh. The colour of the crane did not bode well.

 

_Do you love her?_

 

John wasn’t sure. It had been a long time since he’d fallen in love and it had only been two months. He was sure he didn’t love her, at least not yet. Leave it to Sherlock to get him thinking, though. It wasn’t as if his best friend was coming home anytime soon. He’d lost count of the cranes months ago and he couldn’t remember exactly when he’d figured Sherlock should be back and Mrs Hudson hadn’t mentioned anything more about when the rent would come due again. Maybe he needed to let himself fall for Mary. It could be nice.

 

Sherlock stopped leaving profound messages for a while, preferring to leave really normal and mundane notes for the time being. John came home from his visit to the cemetery to find a green crane sitting on the mantel. He opened it and it was the first message in a while that caught his eye and made him smile at his friend’s antics.

 

_Found the ‘mythical’ King Arthur’s Round Table today._

 

Of course he did! John chuckled. The only person in the world who would be bored enough to go looking for it and actually find it. John wondered idly if the Round Table was in Wales. Lots of people seemed to think it was in Wales and he was curious if that’s where Sherlock had found it. Maybe he’d given himself the case of the Round Table to alleviate his boredom, but if he was bored, couldn’t he just come home? Maybe not. Well, one less historical mystery in the world, for Sherlock Holmes at least.

 

A couple of days later, John came home from the surgery and went straight upstairs to make himself a cuppa. Resting on top of his mug was a maroon crane. He plucked it out of his cup, finished making his tea and took both to sit on the sofa. After taking a sip of his tea, John opened the crane and began to read. This was still the best part of his day.

 

_Take Mrs Hudson one of her herbal soothers. Her hip is bothering her._

 

John smiled at Sherlock’s consideration. The only person he ever outwardly showed affection for was their landlady. And John agreed that there was plenty of reason for that. She was an amazing woman and they were both lucky to have her. Thinking that, John stopped short. He was actively thinking of his friend in the present tense. It was a dangerous game, tricking his mind into believing that Sherlock was really alive out there somewhere. One day it was probably going to bite him in the arse, but today, John was going to smile and go downstairs to help the most wonderful landlady in all of Britain.

 

During the following week’s visit to Scotland Yard, John got into a heated discussion with Donovan. It wasn’t the arguments they normally had. This was quieter, more earnest and it unsettled John in a way that he couldn’t shake. He could handle yelling and being defensive, but Sally seemed to _care_ and that was strange in itself.

 

“John, you deserve better than this. Don’t you get it? He didn’t care about you. You never meant anything to him, so he just pitched himself off that roof without a thought in the world for you,” she said, whispering intensely.

 

“Maybe he didn’t care,” John replied resignedly. “Maybe I never meant anything to him, but I know that he was brilliant and he saved my life, all of our lives, time and time again. That’s enough for me.” Sally nodded and laid a hand on his shoulder. It was meant to be comforting, but it made John itch to get out of there. He nodded back and escaped into Lestrade’s office.

 

When he got home that afternoon, there was a crane sitting on the keyboard of his laptop. It was patiently waiting for him, watching the door with its yellow, eyeless face. John sat down, sighing, and picked it up. He sincerely hoped it was a nice message today. He could use a smile.

 

_You mean everything to me; don’t ever question that._

 

John settled back into the cushions, hanging onto the note. It was nice to know that Sally was wrong, as usual. He smiled at that. Sherlock would appreciate those thoughts. It had felt like it would be one those days when he missed Sherlock terribly, but it was shaping up to be a great day. It was like Sherlock had restored his confidence in his own worth and in the world. John smiled and went to make something for lunch.

 

Things settled back into this new definition of normal for a week or so after the pseudo-argument with Donovan. John saw Mary a few times, he went to work, nothing out of the ordinary happened, Sherlock’s notes were mundane. It was all very boring. On Sunday, John woke up to see a crane resting on his nightstand beside his mobile phone. It was a deep red and looked at him with something like annoyance behind the folds of paper. But it was patient, not on the pillow beside his face, so John wasn’t sure what to make of that. He sat up in bed and opened the crane, hoping the message would make sense of it all.

 

_Tell my brother to stop upsetting Mummy._

 

John nearly laughed out loud. Of course! It didn’t take anything for Sherlock to be annoyed with Mycroft. But John had liked Mrs Holmes, despite everything that had initially told him to dislike her. She had been part of the reason Sherlock was so starved for praise, but she meant well, at least now. He couldn’t fault her for her guilt and he couldn’t stand for Mycroft to upset her, or anyone really. So, he picked up his mobile from the table and opened a new text.

 

_Stop upsetting your mother, Mycroft. – JW_

The wait was a bit longer than normal. John smirked.

 

_Dr Watson, you really must get better sources. I am doing nothing of the sort. – MH_

_Yes, you are. Just cut it out Mycroft. – JW_

 

_Fine. My brother is a bad influence on you, John. – MH_

 

John smiled triumphantly. Mycroft would do as he had asked and there was that little word ‘is’. Its existence was simply amazing, mostly because it wasn’t ‘was’ and that was something. John was no longer the only one referring to his seemingly deceased flatmate in the present tense. Today was shaping up to be a good day, and he hadn’t even dressed for work yet.

 

It was the first week in November and John was coming home early in the morning from Mary’s. He’d found a crane the previous morning, so he knew he hadn’t missed one the night before. He wasn’t expecting to find one as soon as he reached his bedroom, though. One drawer of his dresser was open and the old, worn, stretched out jumper that sat on top was conspicuously absent. In its place sat an emerald green crane. Shaking his head in fond exasperation, John picked it up and opened it.

 

_We agreed yesterday that your old jumper is mine now; you weren’t there to disagree._

 

This time, John did laugh out loud. It wasn’t loud or long, but it was happy. “Ok, Sherlock, you can have my jumper. Better bundle up for winter, though. With your luck you’ll end up with pneumonia,” he grumbled good-naturedly as he puttered round the room, getting dressed for the day. A better day today, he guessed. These notes were better than the mundane crane fodder he’d been getting.

 

The next week, John came home from his day at the surgery to a crane resting on his armchair. It was autumn leaf orange and it looked excited. If he didn’t know any better, John would have accused it of vibrating with enthusiasm. “Well, alright, let’s see what you have for me today,” he said, not really to the crane.

 

_Solved a case today._

 

Yeah, that figured. “I wonder how Lestrade will feel about it tomorrow when I go down to the Yard,” John said, vaguely to the skull on the mantle. It wasn’t often that he had conversations with the skull anymore, but every now and then he needed someone to talk at.

 

The next day, Greg was actually quite pleased. They’d gotten an anonymous tip via untraceable email. They had checked it out and it closed the case in a matter of hours. John smiled to himself, proud of his friend. He figured that Greg probably had his suspicions about Sherlock’s ‘death’ but he didn’t say anything to John about it, so the doctor just let it go. He hoped Sherlock was coming home soon. He was getting too comfortable with this routine, regardless of the occasional evening where he’d make tea for his flatmate without realising or turn around to find the tall madman before remembering why he wasn’t there. This couldn’t go on much longer. Eventually, John would have to pick one life to live and he’d have to give up on this limbo of waiting for his friend to return. He’d have to pick sanity. He already knew that, but he wasn’t ready to pick it just yet.

 

About a week later, John walked home after a nice walk in the park with Mary. He’d walked her to her door, but declined the offer to stay the rest of the day and night. He had clothes and things there, but he didn’t want to miss the crane. Of course, he left that part out when he politely told Mary ‘thank you’ but he would be going home. He said he had plans to spend a bit of time with Mrs Hudson. This wasn’t exactly a lie. He did want to go downstairs and watch a bit of crap telly with the landlady, but she would forgive him for spending the night at Mary’s instead. And Mary was sweet enough to just smile and kiss him goodbye without making a big fuss about it.

 

When John did make it back to Baker Street, there was a yellow crane sitting on the coffee table. He smiled, a little amused by the bright colour of the paper. It wasn’t autumn yellow, just very yellow. He sat on the sofa and read the note.

 

_I think I’d like to take up bee-keeping once I retire_

 

John chuckled. Sherlock must have read a book on bees in that half a library he’d read through out of boredom. Or maybe it was in the other half of the library and he’d already read through that by now. Thinking about it as he went about the rest of his afternoon and while he was watching some reality show with Mrs Hudson, John figured they could move out to the country and keep bees. Maybe they could come into the city on a case by case basis, do some of the work via Skype. He highly doubted Sherlock could ever fully retire. Death hadn’t stopped him, why would age?

 

It was nearly halfway through December and John had woken up one morning to find snow on the ground.  There had been a brief, unexpected thaw the previous week and he missed the warmth already. He got dressed for work and headed down the stairs to bundle up before walking to the surgery in the cold air. Sherlock’s scarf, the one he’d left out last year, was hanging in a prominent place on the coat rack again. And there was a pale crane sitting on top of it. John opened it and read it as he zipped his coat.

 

_You need a scarf; the weather is turning cold again._

 

John smiled fondly and wrapped the warm scarf around his neck. At least he wouldn’t turn up at the surgery half frozen and get mistaken for a hypothermia patient. Sherlock was surprisingly thoughtful in death, but John was no longer shocked by that. It had been going on for two and a half years now.

 

On Christmas Eve Day, John had been forced to go out for a few last minute things. They were having a party at the flat again, him and Mrs Hudson. Lestrade was coming, and several of the Yarders, Mycroft even said he would try to come. And Mary was going to be there. He was nervous about introducing her to his friends. So, he’d gone out in the snow to get some last minute things for the party. He wanted this to be perfect.

 

Halfway through the party, things were going very well. Mary and Greg were getting along wonderfully and Mrs Hudson was so pleased. It was a proper Christmas, even if Sherlock’s absence weighed heavily on his mind. He tried to push those thoughts into that room in his head labelled ‘Insane Flatmate’, but they didn’t particularly want to go. It was also halfway through the party, just after John had refilled the cheese and crackers tray, that he noticed it. He’d set the platter on the coffee table and looked up at his friends. There, behind them on the tree, was a red and green crane.

 

He tried to ignore it and enjoy the party, but thoughts of it kept creeping in. How long had it been there? When had Sherlock popped in to leave the note? What did it say? Was it just Merry Christmas, or was it something more? Could he pull it off the tree and slip it into his pocket without anyone noticing?

 

Eventually, he decided the answer to the last question was yes. He took his eggnog over to the tree and pretended to sip thoughtfully for a moment, while he plucked the paper crane from the boughs and folded it flat to fit in the pocket of his trousers. He waited a beat or two, took a sip and turned around again. Nothing was out of the ordinary in the room, except Mycroft Holmes. The elder brother narrowed his eyes and scrutinised the doctor. John raised eyebrows, as if asking ‘What?’ Then Mycroft’s eyes opened wider in realisation and internally, John cursed him and his powers of observation and deduction. Of all the people though, Mycroft was the least likely to think he was crazy.

 

Later that night, when everyone had left and Mrs Hudson had fussed her last about cleaning, John sat down and opened the crane that had been burning in his pocket half the night.

 

_I could have sworn that you looked right at me today._

 

John closed his eyes and breathed very deeply. This was too much for today. He didn’t want to handle it, but tomorrow would be better. That’s what he kept telling himself.

 

After the New Year, John found himself slowing down when he passed jewellery displays in shop windows and ducking into vintage shops that sold jewellery. He would look at rings for a while and wonder if he would ask Mary to marry him. She’d hinted at it and he didn’t want to be alone, but he also didn’t want to move out of 221B. He was conflicted.

 

On one of those days, he’d stopped in a shop on his way home from work and found a ring he thought she’d really like, but he didn’t buy it. He still wasn’t sure. When he got home, there was a charcoal grey crane sitting in the middle of the kitchen table. It was sad and wanted attention. It was pouting just like Sherlock would. So John picked it up and sat down at the table to read it.

 

_Please don’t marry her, especially if I can’t be there._

 

He exhaled noisily. “What do you think?” he asked the skull in the other room. It stayed unhelpfully silent. “Yeah,” he sighed. “Me too.” Staring at the note for a few minutes, John looked up and over at the skull again. “Maybe I’ll wait until he gets back. Mary will be willing to wait.” The skull said nothing, but John took that as agreement. He sighed and got up to put the crane with the rest and when he got back to the kitchen he made himself some tea. He hoped it wouldn’t be too much longer. Pretty soon he’d have to make a decision about his life and he couldn’t sit and wait for Sherlock for the rest of his life.

 

John walked home one late January afternoon. It had been a fairly easy day at the surgery and he was feeling rather chuffed about it. He had plans to go home and relax, do nothing strenuous, and have a lie in the next morning. That is, until he found blue crane sitting on the coffee table. He sat down on the sofa to open it.

 

_Take Lestrade out for a drink; he had a hard day._

 

Smiling just a little, he picked up his mobile to text Greg. His relaxation was out, but drinks with a friend didn’t sound so bad.

 

_Want to get a drink at the pub tonight? – JW_

 

There was a slight delay, but Lestrade texted back fairly quickly.

 

_Yeah, I need one tonight. Meet you there at 8? – GL_

_See you then – JW_

_Thanks John – GL_

 

John smiled again. “He did good today,” he told the skull fondly. It agreed silently again and John got ready to get a drink and watch whatever football match was on with his friend. He could still have his lie in tomorrow.

 

February came and with it the false promise of warmer weather. Spring was a cruel temptress, a tease of the worst kind and the air was filled with snow, chilly wind and obnoxious window displays for St. Valentine’s Day. John hated it. It made him feel alone, even though he and Mary had plans for the holiday. He was taking her to a very nice restaurant. He and Sherlock had once helped the owner with a problem and had been promised a table whenever they’d like, even holidays. He couldn’t bring himself to take her to Angelo’s and he didn’t bother trying to figure out why. He already knew he wouldn’t like the answer.

 

After work one day, John walked into the flat, having shed his coat and boots by the door, and flopped despondently onto the sofa. There on the arm of the couch beside him sat a crane, watching him with its lavender face. He picked it up and hoped he would feel less alone after a few words from his friend.

 

_I miss you more than I care to admit_

 

That didn’t help. In fact, it only reminded him of how much he missed Sherlock. It was nice to know that at least in one thing he wasn’t alone. Sherlock felt lonely, too. Stupid February. Stupid Hallmark holiday. He’d had enough, thank you very much.

 

Near the end of the month, long after John and Mary’s Valentine’s dinner, John came home to a very odd crane sitting on the coffee table. It was sitting on a few bills that had definitely not been there before. It was a cheery green colour that completely contrasted with the gloom outside.

 

_Take Mrs Hudson out to dinner at Gregorio’s. My treat._

 

Gregorio’s was a delicious restaurant that he and Sherlock had frequented, but not nearly as often as Angelo’s. It was good and they knew the owner quite well, but they hadn’t solved anything for him or gotten him out of a bind. _Yet_ , Sherlock always said. He had every intention of one day earning them free food.

 

It had been a while since John had spent any quality time with Mrs Hudson and it seemed that Sherlock wanted to remedy that by giving them a nice evening out. He went downstairs and let her know that he was taking them out for dinner. She was so excited and hurried to dress in something she deemed appropriate. John just smiled and went upstairs to change into something more suited for dinner before heading back down to leave. It was a lovely evening and John thanked Sherlock in his head at least a dozen times. When he went to the cemetery that week, he actually thanked his friend out loud. It was an odd method of communication, but it was the best he would get for a while he assumed. John kissed his fingers and pressed them to the freezing cold stone, just as he did every single week. He’d never bothered to ask himself why.

 

The first week of March was odd, in a normal sort of way. John couldn’t quite figure out what felt so strange about it, but as the second week of the month dawned, he started to figure it out. Every decision he had been making had started with the thought, “What would Sherlock do?” And Sherlock’s voice would answer in his head. Then John would debate it within his own mind, or with the skull on occasion, and eventually he would do pretty much what Sherlock’s voice had said. It helped him decide on dates with Mary, diagnoses at the surgery, whether he should go for a drink with Lestrade. Having your own personal Jiminy Cricket that sounded like a smug, excitable Sherlock was irritating, but John enjoyed it and hated that he enjoyed it.

 

That week, the day he went to the cemetery to visit Sherlock’s grave, there was a reddish crane waiting for him on the extra pillow on his bed. It watched him patiently, just sitting there until he woke up. John opened it in bed.

 

_Yours is the voice in my head now, John._

 

He smiled and got up to dress for the day. When he got to the gravesite, he addressed the headstone. “My voice is in your head, huh? Well join the club Sherlock. I can’t get your voice out of mine and I would really rather you were actually here, to be perfectly honest. So get home, if you’re coming. And get out of my head if you’re not.” He stopped for a minute, just standing there with his hand resting on the headstone for support. “Please just come home. It’s been too long.” Then he pressed his fingers to his lips and then to the stone, just as always, and went home. This was getting ridiculous, but he would take ridiculous over a real goodbye any day.

 

John had never particularly liked being alone. There were times when he needed a bit of time to himself. Growing up with Harry was enough to ensure that practice, but overall he was a people person. He had friends, many friends. Mrs Hudson always made plans to watch telly with him. Walks in the park and dates with Mary were high points in his week. Visiting Lestrade and the other Yarders hadn’t stopped, even almost three years after he’d stopped working with them. John was a social person on some level, but he’d never had a friend like Sherlock before. Sherlock was, without question, his best friend. Years ago he couldn’t have imagined living life on his own again and now he couldn’t imagine making in through each day without a brightly coloured crane from his friend.

 

Sherlock was a different creature altogether. He enjoyed his solitude and only vaguely tolerated company. Sometimes he appreciated others, but usually it was to showcase their incompetence. When John had started praising him, the doctor noticed the detective’s attitude start to shift. He seemed happy to have John around, even if it was just to have someone to talk at, make him tea and be impressed by his genius. John was willing to give him that and their companionship had become something so much more important. Sherlock didn’t really have other friends and John wondered how he was handling their separation. John could be with people for much of the day, talking and enjoying their company, but Sherlock wasn’t like that. The only person he more than tolerated was John and occasionally Lestrade. Neither of those people was available to him.

 

John had been pondering this on a walk with Mary. They didn’t feel the need to constantly talk and were comfortable walking along and enjoying an oddly sunny mid-March afternoon. When he returned to the flat that evening, there was a crane waiting for him on top of the tea kettle. He read it while waiting for his water to boil.

 

_You have ruined solitude for me forever_

 

Shaking his head sadly, John folded the crane back up and set about fixing his tea. Then he put the crane with the others and went to sit on the sofa with the paper and his tea. Solitude was rubbish, but he had it better than Sherlock, so he wouldn’t complain.

 

The conversation started with Mary. John would blame her for it if asked, but he didn’t mind talking about Sherlock. They were having dinner at hers one evening near the end of March and she’d brought it up.

 

“Do you ever talk about him? Your friend that you lived with.”

 

John smiled a little bitterly. “Sherlock? Usually not unless I’m arguing with Donovan and Anderson about him. Why?”

 

Mary looked a little embarrassed. “I was just thinking about something you said a while ago. You said Sherlock had these rules about life and his cases. I was just curious what kind of rules he lived by. I want to know more about your best friend. If he’s important to you, then he’s important to me, too.”

 

“He had odd rules. Some of them I still don’t understand, but he liked one in particular. Don’t get emotionally involved. It’s mostly about cases, but he liked to use it in his life, too. Said it was easier to do what needed to be done, to get results if you didn’t let yourself care.”

 

She nodded, looking a little confused. “That must have been hard for you then. It seems like you cared about him a lot.”

 

He smiled again, trying not to let that sting. “Sherlock did care, about a lot more than he’d like anyone to think. Labelling himself a sociopath made it easier for him to justify his methods. But people don’t make rules if they don’t need to follow them. He made himself not care because it was easier. But it was still hard sometimes. Sometimes his stupid rules made me want to smack him.”

 

The rest of the evening was less painful for John and he was fairly happy when he left early the next morning. He had to get dressed for work, but as he walked home thoughts about Sherlock’s stupid rules snuck their way in and John started to wonder if his friend had ever cared enough to go to the trouble of all these notes for three years. When he walked into his bedroom, he noticed the blue crane sitting in the middle of his bed. He sat down to read it before getting ready.

 

_You are the only exception to all my rules_

 

John smiled widely. That was good to know. It made him feel less like the tagalong that Sherlock didn’t even want around. It also got him thinking. Sherlock more or less saying that he cared about John, in a roundabout way without any real elaboration, made him feel better than any of Mary’s many pronouncements that she loved him and he was important to her. Maybe it was just that Sherlock cared about so few people that it made him feel special. Mary cared about everyone. That had to be it.

 

John went to visit the Yard during the first week of April and got a very nasty surprise when he walked into Lestrade’s office. Greg was there, sitting behind his desk looking tense. Sally was there too, sitting in one of the chairs opposite Lestrade. Sherlock’s chair, his mind yelled at him. The nasty part of the surprise was that Mycroft, in all his Holmesian arrogance was standing just to Lestrade’s right, on level with his desk chair. They had been waiting for him. He wanted to back out of the room, run down the stairs and straight into a cab to Sherlock’s grave or his flat or the park or anywhere but this office with people who cared about him staring at him with such concerned expressions. They didn’t understand.

 

“John,” Lestrade pleaded. “Please sit down.” John sighed and sat down. He felt like a petulant child, slumping in his seat the way he was. Maybe he was channelling Sherlock.

 

“Dr Watson, this is not an intervention –” Mycroft started to say. John cut him off with a scoff and Mycroft narrowed his eyes before continuing. “Think of this as a pre-intervention. We are merely concerned that you have not really returned to normal after my brother’s unfortunate demise.” Lestrade looked even more uncomfortable, if that was possible. “The three of us have gathered here to express our concern and bring the problem to your attention before we feel a full intervention is necessary.”

 

Greg glanced at Mycroft and apparently decided he needed to take over. “John, we’re worried that you’re just going through the motions. It’s been almost three years and we know it must be incredibly hard for you, but you need to live your life.”

 

“We have a proposal for you,” Sally began. “The day after the third anniversary we’ll come over to Baker Street. Everyone who loves you will be there. So you have two and a half months to get yourself back on track before your real intervention. If we come over and you’re back to the John you should be, then we’ll leave you alone.”

 

“This seems fair, does it not, Dr Watson?” Mycroft finished.

 

John sighed and nodded. “Yeah, sure. I’m going to go visit other people now. I’ll see you later, Greg.” Then he stood and walked out the door to go visit the other Yarders he had made friends with. The idea of an intervention left him reeling.

 

He was fine, or at least he’d thought he was. Was he just going through the motions? He’d thought he was doing fine. He was working at the surgery and that was good, a bit boring and not really what he wanted to be doing, but it was good. Sure he still lived in their flat, but he was comfortable there and he wouldn’t know what to do with Sherlock’s stuff if he decided to move. According to Mycroft, everything that Sherlock owned was now John’s. Maybe it was the fact that the flat was literally unchanged from three years ago when Sherlock was living there with him and that he hadn’t moved downstairs into the bigger bedroom. Oh, and he had a girlfriend! A serious one at that. Mary was a nice girl and they were really good together. She had been pretty and sweet and honest and she liked him and it made perfect sense to date her.

 

Oh, maybe that’s what they meant. He didn’t really want any of the things he had changed, the girlfriend and the surgery. The only things he wanted were the flat and visits to the Yard and notes from his best friend every day. John said goodbye to the young man he’d been talking to and walked home. It was a very long walk, but it was early yet. He’d make a decision about the intervention later. Now he just wanted to go home and get a note from Sherlock telling him that Mycroft was an idiot. He thought he would get his wish when he walked into the flat and there was a crane on his armchair. It waited impatiently for him with its bright green head turned toward the door. John picked it up and sank into the chair, utterly exhausted from the walk and the pre-intervention he’d walked into.

 

_I’ll be there_

 

John stumbled over the meaning for a minute before it slapped him in the face. The intervention! Sherlock would be there. At least they wouldn’t think he was crazy when they searched the flat and found the cranes. Maybe they’d even let him off the hook about the whole moving on thing. He hoped so and he hoped that Sherlock was being literal and not metaphorical. The hope calmed his frazzled nerves and he slipped into sleep right there in the chair. He awoke long after dark and just climbed the stairs to his bed. He was too tired and too comfortable to think about anything more complex than that.

 

A week and a half later, John had plans to take Mary out. They were going to go for a walk in the park and then for tea. It would be lovely now that it was April and spring was upon them. It made sense to John that they should make a date out of it. She would be happy with it and he would enjoy the better weather. Perfect.

 

John woke up the morning of their date and went to dress. When he reached the chest of drawers, he noticed the spring pink crane that sat on top of the dresser, judging him harshly. He picked it up and hoped for something mundane, but nothing anywhere near normal came out of the cranes that judged him with their beady, non-existent eyes.

 

_I’ve recently learned: love isn’t about reason._

 

It hit John then, the exact way Sherlock had intended, that he was being so very reasonable about his relationship with Mary. There wasn’t a single emotion he could point to that didn’t have a pile of logic behind it. He stopped to think about it for a second.

 

Walking with Mary in the park was good because it counted as a date, he mentally cringed at his own justification, and he would have a chance to enjoy the weather without being by himself. They could have tea afterward because tea was delicious and there was no reason he had to enjoy it in the flat alone all the time. Did he love Mary? Maybe. But he was pretty sure that if he really loved her he would be able to say yes without hesitation or reason. John sighed.

 

Walking with Sherlock in the park was good because he always had fun, this was better already. Sherlock was never boring to be around and they never ran out of things to talk about and even when they didn’t really talk, Sherlock would occasionally point out little deductions that John would enjoy about the people around them. He did that at social events, too, which made them infinitely more enjoyable for John, even though he’d liked them just fine before the detective had come along. He always made tea for Sherlock and food because without him, the stupid genius would go hungry all the time. Did he love Sherlock? Of course! He was Sherlock; they were best friends. Oh, John realised suddenly. He didn’t actually have any reasons for any of those things. They were just true.

 

John threw on something, no longer as concerned with his appearance, and went round Mary’s. Instead of going out to walk in the park and get tea, he went inside and tried to vaguely explain his realisation without making it sound like he was getting messages from his dead flatmate. She was very sweet about the whole thing and said she understood, more or less, and respected his decision.

 

“I really am sorry, Mary,” he said, standing at the door with the few things he had at hers.

 

“I know you are, John.” She looked sad and John didn’t want to see her cry so he went to leave.

 

“Mary, have a really great life. Some bloke out there is going to be very lucky.” She nodded and he left quietly, catching a cab back to Baker Street.

 

At the end of the month, John found himself back at the Yard out of habit, but he stopped himself before going into Lestrade’s office. He was trying to be mad at the Detective Inspector, but it was hard because he was John’s best friend after Sherlock. He’d have to start having lunch or going to the pub with Stamford again. Turning around to go back down the corridor to see some of the other Yarders, John ran into the third to last person he wanted to see. Lestrade was number four and Mycroft and Anderson were one and two, respectively. Number three was Sally Donovan. She was actually not smirking at him, but she was studying his face.

 

“Something’s different about you,” she said suspiciously.

 

“Uhm, I broke up with Mary. Can I go now?”

 

Sally sighed derisively. “You’re supposed to be moving on, not going backwards.”

 

“Better than going through the motions, right?” he grumbled, stepping past her and not looking back. It was a painful day. He couldn’t see his friends because he was cross with them and they would only make him more angry once they found out he wasn’t seeing Mary anymore. After a few minutes visiting with the other Yarders he’d made friends with, John caught a cab and headed back to Baker Street. When he got there, he found a peach coloured crane on the kitchen counter. He leaned back against the counter and opened it.

 

_I can’t stand to see you hurt so much_

 

That wasn’t helpful. It just made John sad. This spring was horrible. It wasn’t the celebration of making it through the dark, cold winter that it had once been. It was finally getting warmer and May was around the corner, but it didn’t make John feel happy. He hadn’t walked in the park since he broke things off with Mary. It wasn’t because of her, but because he felt like he’d tainted the memories of walking there with Sherlock by walking there with Mary and now he was ashamed to face that.

 

John hadn’t moved past his irritation with his friends and his disappointment with himself about Mary and it was unlikely that he would be moving past the shame about the park in the near future. He wanted to fast forward and see if it would all be worth it in the end. John Watson could be a patient man if he needed to be, but this was getting ridiculous.

 

“Three years!” John said loudly to the skull one afternoon. “Does he really think that’s okay? That I’ll just be chuffed to have him home?” The skull silently mocked him, reminding him that: yes, in fact, he would just be chuffed to have Sherlock home. “Yes, you’re right. I would. I’m not talking to you anymore today.” Huffing at the skull, John got up and went to the kitchen for some tea. When he walked in there was a new decoration on the windowsill: a daffodil yellow crane. John picked it up and read it while the kettle boiled.

 

_It will all be over soon._

 

Letting the tension in his shoulders drop, John reminded himself that Sherlock was right. Just over a month now and either he’d be home or all of their friends would commit John to a mental hospital. It would either be some romantic comedy or John, Interrupted. Maybe he didn’t want to find out which one it would be.

 

Halfway through May, John ran into the person he least wanted to see on the street outside a café he frequented on his way home. It was obviously not a coincidence. Mycroft was checking up on him. So John ignored him until he had a hot cup of coffee in his hand and was standing on the pavement beside the elder Holmes brother.

 

“What do you want, Mycroft?”

 

“I am merely concerned with your welfare, Dr Watson. There were many opinions Sherlock took into account, and I would hate for you to feel at all lost without his intrusive thoughts. I guarantee he would not feel the same about the loss of yours. Also I have taken it upon myself to remind you that you have one month before myself, the Detective Inspector, Sgt Donovan, Mrs Hudson and a select few others will convene on your sitting room to investigate your mental state following the loss of my brother.”

 

John smirked disdainfully. It didn’t suit him. “If your dear brother were still with us, we would be having this conversation in the sitting room and he would be screeching on the violin to make you leave –”

 

“I don’t know why Mummy ever bothered with those lessons.”

 

“– and since I can’t make that same horrible noise, I’m asking you to leave me alone, at least for another month.”

 

Mycroft gave a put upon sigh. “Very well.”

 

Before John walked away, he turned back for one last parting comment, “When he wasn’t trying to get rid of you, he played wonderfully.” He smirked and left his best friend’s brother behind him, hopefully chastened. Once he returned to 221B, John was angry with Mycroft, which wasn’t all that difficult, and he was beginning to doubt himself. It must run in the family, the ability to make scathing comments that dig deeper the longer they fester. Or maybe Sherlock had learned it from his brother. He wanted to believe his opinion had mattered to Sherlock, at least enough to make an impact. Sitting down on the sofa to watch telly, John almost didn’t notice the turquoise crane sitting on the coffee table, in amongst the papers and books. He picked it up out of the mess and looked at it for a moment. It looked honest, sincere.

 

_Yours is the only opinion that ever mattered._

 

John smiled. Take that, Mycroft. Sherlock could fix any problem and didn’t that thought just give him more faith in his friend cheating death. It was pretty late in the game to be having doubts, with one month to go until Sherlock’s notes had promised that he’d be back. But honestly, what were the odds of anyone cheating death like that. Sherlock Holmes was always one step ahead of everyone, everyone but Moriarty. And John wanted him to have come out on top so badly, but he was afraid that wanting it too badly would mean it couldn’t happen. He sighed and went to put the crane with the others. He would not stop believing in Sherlock, not now with one month to go before he was proved either crazy or right. This was not the time for negative thinking.

 

Over a week later, John still hadn’t managed to get rid of all his doubts and negative thoughts. He’d taken to talking them through with the skull again, trying to figure out what he should think, but they just sounded even crazier when he said them out loud. He was starting to pull away, trying to stop hoping because he was more and more afraid that his hopes were going to be dashed. One afternoon in late May, after quite a while of being mocked in silence by the skull on the mantel, John came home from the surgery and found a bright green crane on the mantel with its tail clasped in the teeth of the skull. John smiled at that and went to read it. Perhaps Sherlock would answer all the questions he’d been asking for a week.

 

_Don’t let go of me John Watson._

 

John nodded with the tiniest of smiles on his face. Ok. He wouldn’t pull away and stop hoping. He wouldn’t let go and he wouldn’t give up. Less than a month to go now and he was still scared to believe that the person he’d wanted to come back for him for so long wouldn’t be there. No bad thoughts. He breathed and tried to remember every time his best friend had beat the odds and done the impossible. It was a pretty long list. That was comforting. He went to put the crane with the rest and came back out to the lounge.

 

“He’ll be here,” he told the skull. It said nothing in reply, but didn’t mock him as usual.

 

John’s last visit to Sherlock’s grave in June before the anniversary was a warm one. It was threatening to rain, but it was still warmer than it had been in quite a while. He set the flowers down as he usually did and stood for a moment, unsure of what to say.

 

“Well, I guess you’ll be home soon. You did give me your word. I really don’t want to face your brother and all our friends by myself.” He took a moment to collect himself. “I guess if this is my last chance to talk to you this way, I should tell you that you saved me from myself all those years ago. I don’t know where I’d be if Stamford hadn’t introduced us and I don’t regret any of it, even these last few years. So you better come home and make all this worth it.” Then he kissed his fingers and pressed them to the headstone one last time before heading back home.

 

When he got back to the flat, there was a crane waiting for him on the sofa, in the same place Sherlock always sat to think. It was sort of a green-blue colour, like one of the many colours his eyes turned. John smiled and sat beside it, picking it up and wondering if it was a response to what he’d said at the cemetery.

 

_You saved me from myself and continue to do so every moment I think of you_

 

It would have been sappy coming from anyone else, but John could only imagine it in Sherlock’s matter-of-fact tone and that’s what it would be to him: a fact. He wouldn’t view that as something emotionally significant. Oh well, it felt nice to know that he’d done something for his genius friend who could do anything at all and impress anyone at all, but chose to keep ordinary John Watson around. The seventeenth couldn’t come soon enough.

 

It was 16 June 2015. Cars didn’t fly. They hadn’t cured cancer or the common cold. But Sherlock Holmes had been dead for three years. John was wondering if he should even go to the cemetery. It was trying to drizzle outside and he’d just been less than a week beforehand. Maybe he could just have some tea and commune with the skull instead. Sherlock had probably bugged both of them, so what was the difference really? Either way, he had to get out of bed. John sat up and reached for his mobile on the bedside table. There was one text. From Mycroft.

 

_See you tomorrow afternoon, Dr Watson – MH_

 

John didn’t bother texting back something snarky. Mycroft already knew the message would irritate him. He slipped the phone into the pocket of his pyjama trousers and went downstairs to start some tea and toast. He sat down on the sofa and had gotten halfway through his toast before he realised there was a deep purple crane sitting on Sherlock’s armchair. It was the same colour as the shirt John loved Sherlock in, but it had a bit of baby blue speckled all over it. John took a sip of tea to swallow around the lump in his throat. He was half excited for the last note (he’d counted them the day before) and half terrified that it would be Sherlock saying goodbye. He stepped around the coffee table, picked up the note and returned to his seat before opening it.

 

_Make a wish_

 

Closing his eyes tight, John did make a wish. I can’t tell you what it was he wished for because then it might not come true, but you all have an idea what it might be. When he opened his eyes, his wish hadn’t been granted, but maybe these things took time. Was there a 24-hour minimum waiting period? Maybe. John decided that he wouldn’t go out to the cemetery after all, just in case.

 

Nothing came of the day, except John got caught up on his celebrity gossip and watched a mini-marathon of some reality show that was only interesting because it was like a train wreck and he couldn’t look away. He went to bed early that night, unable to sit up and fidget any longer. He slept fitfully, but around 4 a.m. something calmed him and he stopped tossing and turning unconsciously.

 

At half seven on 17 June 2015, John Watson woke up feeling decidedly different, but he didn’t know why. There were no text messages on his phone and the assembled hordes of concerned friends weren’t set to come round until afternoon. Shaking his head, John got up, put on his dressing gown and walked down the stairs and into the kitchen, yawning and rubbing sleep from his eyes most of the way. He set the kettle to boil and took two mugs down from the cabinet, putting a tea bag in each. He poured the hot water into both of them and in the middle of pouring the milk, he stopped short. After three years, making tea for just himself should be habit. The hair on the back of his neck prickled a bit with the sixth sense of being watched and he turned sharply toward the lounge, thankfully leaving the mugs on the counter.

 

Sitting in Sherlock’s armchair was none other than Sherlock Holmes himself, wearing one of his perfectly tailored suits with his purple shirt. He looked a little thinner than he used to, but he’d spent three years without anyone taking care of him, so John wasn’t particularly surprised. His right hand was held flat at chin level out toward John and sitting in his palm was a red crane. The 1001st crane. John walked over to the man in a haze. He plucked the crane from his friend’s palm, careful not to touch his skin. There’d been dreams where Sherlock dissolved the second John had touched him and if this was a dream, John wanted it to last as long as possible. He opened the crane slowly.

 

_I love you_

 

John looked back at the earnest expression on Sherlock’s face, dropped the unfolded crane on the coffee table behind him and punched Sherlock in the shoulder. A silent ‘ow’ escaped the taller man’s mouth and he stared up at his friend, seemingly ready with a scathing comeback. John bent his knees and grabbed the lapels of Sherlock’s suit jacket, pulling him forward and silencing him with a kiss. It was chaste, but full of passion. When John pulled back, he looked straight into Sherlock’s ever-changing eyes.

 

“If you die again, I will kill you myself. Understood?”

 

“Yes, John,” Sherlock replied with an indulgent smile. “What did you wish for?”

 

John rolled his eyes a little. As if he didn’t know. “You, obviously. Now shut up.” He sealed their lips together again and proceeded to make up for lost time.


	2. Epilogue

When John and Sherlock finally pulled away from each other, needing air and a rest from their awkward positions, Sherlock smiled blindingly up at his blogger. “The tea is getting cold, John.”

 

“Oh shut it, you,” the short man replied, smiling. He got up to get their tea and brought both mugs back to the coffee table. Sherlock stood up, stepped on and over the coffee table and sat down beside John on the sofa. They were close, thighs pressed tightly together and sipping their tea. Sherlock was curled slightly into John’s warmth, breathing in the distinctive smell of his flatmate and best friend. “Your brother and our friends will be here soon.”

 

“Then perhaps you should shower and dress. I will make some toast for us.” John looked momentarily shocked before nodding and going to have his shower. When he’d finished and come back down the stairs in a fresh shirt and jeans, his friend was sitting at the kitchen table with two plates of toast and jam. Sitting down slowly, John looked mildly impressed at Sherlock’s breakfast skills. “I am capable of rudimentary meals, John. There is no need to look so insultingly impressed.”

 

John laughed. “Alright. I admit, you had to have survived by yourself somehow.” He took a bite of toast, pleased to find that it was just the way he liked it. “So where did you go?” Sherlock looked shifty. “I want to know before Mycroft and Lestrade force you to talk about it.”

 

Nodding slowly, Sherlock began his tale. They migrated to the sofa and John alternately rested a comforting hand on his flatmate’s knee and laughed at his stories of incredible boredom. The whole story took a few hours; Sherlock is one of the most thorough story-tellers the world has ever known. By the time he was finished, it was nearly time to expect the assembly of concerned citizens.

 

“Help me get things ready for everyone to storm the flat,” John said, leveraging himself up off the sofa. “But you’re not getting out of telling me how you left all those notes.”

 

“I wouldn’t dream of it. You will get your answer, I promise you,” Sherlock replied, getting up and helping to set up the sitting room. He brought the few chairs from the kitchen into the lounge and set them up beside the couch so John and Sherlock could face their friends from the armchairs. John was busy in the kitchen setting up a tea service for at least five people, but he had no way of telling just how many friends Mycroft and Greg had roped into this. What if Mrs Holmes was invited? Would they go so far as to invite Mary? “It’s going to be fine, John.”

 

The doctor smiled at his friend, relieved. “Thanks, Sherlock.” The detective nodded and pulled a few more mugs down from the top shelf, just in case. John filled the kettle with water and they stood against the counter, waiting impatiently for their uninvited guests to arrive. At 12:30 there was a ring at the door and the sound of Mrs Hudson answering it right away.

 

“Oh, Inspector, I’m glad to see you,” they could hear her saying from downstairs and the murmuring of two voices answered her.

 

“Lestrade and Donovan,” Sherlock deduced quietly to John, who nodded in reply. Oddly, no one came upstairs yet. Knowing that at least part of the intervention force was downstairs waiting for the order to charge, but being stuck upstairs stewing was torture. John was nervously tapping his fingers against the countertop and Sherlock was fighting the urge to pace around the kitchen. Turning around quickly, John turned on the kettle and grabbed two tea bags, dropping them into the extra mugs.

 

“Tea?” Sherlock nodded and gave in to the desire to pace, though he was never more than two strides from John. A few moments later, a hot cup of tea was pressed into Sherlock’s hands as he passed by. The taller man took a sip and smiled in delight. It was exactly the way he liked it. John leaned back against the counter again and sipped his tea calmly.

 

Downstairs, a phone pinged and Lestrade’s voice drifted up to the open door of the flat. “He says to go up. He’ll be here in five.” Sherlock stepped out of the kitchen and closed the door leading from the stairs to the lounge. He sat in his armchair, sipping his tea and waiting. After a moment, they could hear footsteps on the stairs and John had started the kettle and taken the milk out of the fridge again.

 

Lestrade, Donovan and Mrs Hudson stepped through the open kitchen door from the stairs and found John standing there, obviously anticipating them. “Tea anyone?” All three of them nodded bewilderedly.

 

“Better fill them all John. Mycroft will be here soon,” Lestrade advised, seeming a bit anxious about the whole affair. John did as instructed and picked up the tray, leading the way out to the sitting room. There he set it down on the coffee table and picked up his own mug, before retreating to his armchair. If Lestrade had seemed anxious before, he was positively freaking out now. He had gone white and was slumped on the sofa with his tea, staring. He’d only just noticed the occupant of the other armchair. Mrs Hudson was still fixing her tea and Donovan hadn’t looked up yet. And Greg hadn’t yet regained the use of his vocal chords. When Sally and Mrs Hudson finally did look up to see Sherlock sitting in his chair, sipping his tea like he’d never been gone, they could do little more than splutter and sit down firmly on the couch. John smiled awkwardly at them and waited for one of them to say something.

 

Fortunately, or unfortunately, Mycroft walked in through the kitchen before anyone had managed to find their voice. “I hope you all will excuse my slight tardiness. I was fetching Mummy from the manor and traffic returning to the city was horrendous,” he explained, Mrs Holmes walking quietly and rigidly behind her elder son. “Sherlock,” he said, slightly surprised, but much more controlled than anyone else’s reaction. Even Mrs Holmes couldn’t speak. “I hadn’t expected you today.”

 

“Then your incompetence has increased with your weight.” John stifled a giggle and the tense atmosphere was broken. “Mummy?” he asked, voice a little small as their eyes met. It occurred to John then that Sherlock hadn’t seen his mother in a very long time, more than the three years he’d been ‘dead’ and they’d been fighting the last time he’d seen her. Though, judging from any conversations between the Holmes brothers pertaining to their mother that John had overheard, he must care quite a lot about her. Sherlock stood quickly, setting his tea on the arm of his chair, and crossed the room to hug his mother. It was a rare moment of affection that even Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to interrupt.

 

“I’m so pleased to see you Sherlock,” she said as he pulled back. Her words couldn’t do justice to the love shining in her face. The youngest Holmes guided his mother to one of the kitchen chairs and smiled at her before returning to his seat. Every movement was the picture of grace and despite the audience, not a second of it felt awkward.

 

As soon as Sherlock was seated, Greg seemed to find his voice. “Alright, I think we deserve some sort of explanation, but I don’t know which one of you needs to give it.” John and Sherlock glanced at each other, their wordless communication unhampered by the years apart. “How long have you known John?”

 

“I never really knew for sure. I’ve been finding paper cranes since about three months after the fall. I got one every day with a note inside from Sherlock. At first I just wanted to believe it because it was better than believing he was dead and then I didn’t want to believe it because I didn’t want to be let down, but I’ve believed that it was really him for a while now. I came down here this morning and he was sitting in his chair waiting for me to notice him. I swear it was the first time I’ve seen him in three years.” Greg nodded and looked at Sherlock imploringly.

 

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock added his own side of the story, “Obviously I didn’t die when I fell. Moriarty was dead, but his operation didn’t necessarily need him to wreak havoc. His second in command, Sebastian Moran, was still at large and he had a grudge against anyone who contributed to the downfall of his boss and people I care about would have been hurt if I didn’t jump. So, I’ve spent the last three years tracking down and disposing of Moran and dismantling Moriarty’s criminal network. Thankfully, most of my work could be done from London so I was able to maintain surveillance on those of you who could have been targets.”

 

Sally raised a sceptical eyebrow, “You left paper cranes? What a thousand of them?” Then she stopped for a second. “Wait, you kept us under surveillance?”

 

Sherlock scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself Donovan. You were not a target. And no doubt my brother has had you under surveillance for several years.”

 

“The cranes Sherlock,” John prompted. He was tired of his friends looking at him like he was crazy.

 

“Yes, I’m getting to that, John,” Sherlock replied. “I did leave one thousand paper cranes in various places for John, beginning one thousand and one days ago. I kept a watchful eye on John and planted listening devices in both the skull and on my headstone.”

 

Mrs Hudson seemed to be catching on and regaining her composure after seeing that Sherlock was not, in fact, dead. “So those were the messages you were always passing on, John.”

 

The doctor nodded. “Yes, he sent me a lot of messages to pass along. You’ve all gotten them at one point or another.”

 

“So where are these mysterious cranes?” Mycroft asked, deciding to finally contribute to the conversation.

 

John looked sheepish for a moment, before standing up and walking to the door to Sherlock’s bedroom. Once he opened it, large strands of cranes could be seen lying across the detective’s unused bed. “I needed to keep them somewhere out of sight. Last place anyone would want to look.” Then he closed the door and walked back to his chair.

 

“It seems plain to me that this entire ordeal is unfounded. Dr Watson has every right to not move past Sherlock’s death, seeing as he is not dead. So if you don’t mind, I believe now would be the time for us to make arrangements to get reacquainted with my son and then get out of his hair. I believe he and John have much catching up to do,” Mrs Holmes said, almost scolding the other members of the intervention. She stood up, placing her mug on the tray and crossed the room to where John and Sherlock were sitting. Both of them had stood up to see her off. She shook John’s hand warmly, “Dr Watson.” Then she moved to hug her youngest son again. “I trust you both will be able to come to lunch at the manor on Thursday.” Sherlock nodded. “Good,” she replied, smiling. “Mycroft, say goodbye to your brother. The car is waiting downstairs.”

 

Pretending not to huff, Mycroft stood and nodded to both of them. “I shall be keeping an eye on both of you. And I will send the car around on Thursday.” John and Sherlock nodded back at him. Then the rest of the Holmes family left the flat and could be heard walking calmly down the stairs and out onto the pavement.

 

Lestrade stood next, recognizing his cue to leave and take Sally with him. “John,” he said, sticking out a hand to shake and pulling the doctor in to clap him on the back. “You have a patience of a saint. I wouldn’t have been able to wait that long. But I think it’s about time we left, too.” John smiled back at his friend. Greg turned to give Sherlock the same farewell and the detective actually accepted the semi-hug. “I’ll call you if any interesting cases turn up. You’ve probably been bored out of your mind.”

 

“You have no idea,” Sherlock replied, much to Lestrade’s amusement.

 

Donovan smiled at both of them and waved pleasantly. “Guess I’ll be seeing you at my next crime scene, then. It’s good to have you back, Sherlock.” He smiled back at her and watched as she and the DI walked out of the flat and made their way back home. Now only Mrs Hudson was left sitting on their sofa.

 

“Are you really alright, Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson asked as she stood from her seat.

 

He nodded. “I am in perfect health, Mrs Hudson and very pleased to have returned to Baker Street.” He embraced her and smiled as he let go.

 

“Oh, I’m so sorry for all of this, John. I’m so glad you’re alright,” Mrs Hudson said, moving to fuss over John.

 

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” He wrapped his arms around her as well.

 

“I’ll just leave you two, then.” She smiled at both of them, her hands flitting back and forth in her joy. Then she left the room, walking down the stairs to her own flat.

 

Alone once more, John turned to Sherlock, smiling brightly. “So you love me?”

 

“Yes, John. Don’t be dull,” Sherlock replied in a measured voice. His hands were clasped behind his back, but John could see the tensing of the muscles in his forearms. The consulting detective was wringing his hands nervously and didn’t want his blogger to know, but John had been brushing up on his deductive skills in the last three years.

 

“Good. I love you, too.” Sherlock smiled blindingly down at the ex-army doctor and met him halfway in a passionate kiss.


End file.
